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HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


HUMOROUS     POEMS. 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 


BY 


WILLIAM    MICHAEL    ROSSETTI. 


All  wit  does  but  divert  men  from  the  road 
In  which  things  vulgarly  are  understood ; 
And  force  mistake  and  ignorance  to  own 
A  better  sense  than  commonly  is  known. 

Butler. 

Vivre  est  uue  chanson  dont  mourir  est  le  refrain. 

VrcTOR  Hugo. 


LONDON: 
E.    MOXON,    SON,    &    COMPANY, 

I  AMEN  CORNER,  PATERNOSTER  ROW: 


<0 


DEDICATED 


TO 


ONE   OF   MY   DEAREST  AND   OLDEST   FRIENDS^ 

FORD    MADOX   BROWN, 

A  MAN  EXCELLENTLY  QUALIFIED, 

3Y  THE  TURN   OF   HIS    OWN    GENIUS, 

TO  SAY  WHAT  IS  POETICAL, 

OR  HUMOROUS, 

OR  BOTH. 


2043337 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Preface  .,..,..        xvii 

ENGLISH  WRITEE.«. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer — 

The  Chanoun's  Yeman's  Tale  .  .  •  I 

The  Nunne  Priest's  Tale        .  .  .  '•  12 

AUAM  OF  COBSAM — 

The  Wright's  Chaste  Wife     ....  26 

Andrew  Borde — 

An  Irishman  and  a  Lombard  .  .  j  41 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt — 

The  Recured  Lover  exulteth  in  his  Freedom,   and 

voweth  to  remain  free  until  death    ---  .  .  42 

Of  his  Love,  that  pricked  her  Finger  with  a  Needle  43 

Plow  to  use  the  Court,  and  Himself  therein  .  .  44 

Thomas  Tusser — 

Good  Husband  and  Unthrift  ,.,,46 

Hugh  Rhodes — 

Cautions  ......  48 

Edmund  Spenser — 

Prosopopoia   ......  49 

Sir  John  IlARiNCtON — 

Of  a  Precise  Tailor     .....  77 


viii  CONTENTS 


■    PAGE 

Sir  John  Davies — 

A  Riddle  upon  a  Coffin  o  ...  78 

In  Gerontem  ......  78 

John  Donne — 

Song  .......  79 

Woman's  Constancy  .  ...  .80 

The  Indifferent  .....  80 

The  Will        .  .  .  .  .  .  8i 

Ben  Jonson — 

On  Giles  and  Joan      .....  82 

To  Captain  Hungry    .....  82 

A  Fit  of  Rhyme  against  Rhyme  ...  83 

Epistle  to  my  Lady  Covell     ....  84 

Bishop  (Joseph)  Hall— 

A  Trencher  Chaplain  ....  85 

John  Fletcher — 

Laughing  Song  .....  86 

Bishop  (Richard)  Corbet— 

Dr.  Corbet's  Journey  into  France  ...  87 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies  .  .  .  .  90 

An  Epitaph  on  Thomas  Jonce  ...  91 

Thomas  Carew — 

To  A.  D.,  unreasonably  distrustful  of  her  own  beauty  92 

To  my  Friend,  G.  N.,  from  Wrest      •  .  .  93 

The  Hue  and  Cry       .....  96 

Samuel  Rowlands — 

The  Conjurer  Cozened  ....  97 

Robert  IIerrick — 

Upon  a  Wife  that  died  mad  with  Jealousy     .  .  98 

Upon  Pagget  .....  99 

To  the  Detractor         ..... 
The  Invitation  ..... 

Francis  Quarles — 

Hey  then  up  go  we     .  ,  .  .  .100 

Edmund  Waller — 

An  Epigram  on  a  Painted  Lady  with  111  Teeth  .         loi 


99 
99 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Thomas  Washbourne — 

Upon  the  People's  Denying  of  Tithes  in  some  places, 
and  ejecting  their  Pastors 

Samuel  Butler — 

The  Elephant  in  the  Moon     . 

Upon  Plagiaries  .... 

Upon  Modern  Critics 

A  Palinode  to  the  Honourable  Edward  Howard,  Esq. 

Description  of  Holland 

Regal  Adulation  .... 

Fear    ...... 

A  Jubilee        ..... 

Scribblers        ..... 

Sir  John  Suckling— 

SirJ.  S 

Love  and  Debt  alike  troublesome 

Upon  the  Black  Spots  worn  by  my  Lady  D.  K 

The  Metamorphosis    .... 

John  Cleveland — 

The  Long  Parliament 

The  Puritan    ..... 
R.  Watkyns — 

Black  Patches,  Vanitas  Vanitatum 
Sir  John  Denham — 

On  my  Lord  Croft's  a..d  my  Journey  into  Poland 
Abraham  Cowley — 

The  Chronicle,  a  Ballad 

Richard  Lovelace — 

To  a  Lady  that  desired  me  I  would  1>car  my  part  with 
her  in  a  song       ..... 

The  Duel 

The  Snail       ...... 

Thomas  SxANt-CY — 

Note  on  Anacreon      .  .... 

Andrew  Marvell — 

Mourning- 

The  Character  of  Holland 


PAGE 

102 

103 
114 
118 
121 
123 
123 
124 
124 
124 

125 

125 

126 
126 

126 

128 

130 
130 
132 


134 

136 
137 

138 

140 

141 


CONTENTS. 


\ 


Henry  Vaughan — 

To  his  Retired  Friend,  an  Invitation  to  Brecknock    . 

Alexander  Brome — 

The  Prisoners  c  •  i  *  • 

John  Dryden — 

On  the  Young  Statesmen       ,  .  ,  , 

Katharine  Philips — 

To  Antenor,  on  a  Paper  of  mine  which  J.  J.  threatens 
to  publish,  to  prejudice  him 

Earl  of  Dorset  (Charles  Sackville) — 
Song  .  .  »  .  . 

William  Walsh — 

The  Despairing  Lover  .  , 

Matthew  Prior — 

To  a  Child  of  Quality 
Merry  Andrew 

Samuel  Wesley  (Senr,) — 

A  Pindaric  on  the  Grunting  of  a  Hog 

Sir  John  Vanbrugh — 

Fable,  related  by  a  Beau  to  ^sop 

Jonathan  Swift — 

Dean  Swift's  Curate   .  .  . 

A  True  and  Faithful  Inventory 

On  the  Little  House  by  the  Churchyard  of  Castlenock 

Baucis  and  Philemon  .  . 

A  Description  of  the  Morning  , 

Stella's  Birthday,  1718 

Mary  the  Cook-Maid's  Letter  to  Dr.  Sheridan 

Dr.  Swift  to  Mr.  Pope 

To  Dr.  Delany,  on  the  Libels  written  against  him 

Whitshed's  Motto  on  his  Coach 

Death  and  Daphne     .  .  :  . 

Lord  Lansdowne  (George  Granville) — 

Lines  .  .  .  .  • 

Joseph  Addison — 

The  Play-house    .... 


144 
146 
148 

149 

SO 

151 

152 
153 

154 

156 

157 
157 
158 

159 
163 

163 
164 

165 
166 
169 
170 

172 
173 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


John  Philips— 

The  Splendid  Shilling  .  ,  . 

George  Jeffreys— 

A  Riddle  of  Dean  Swift's,  Versified  .  , 

Thomas  Sheridan — 

Dr.  Delany's  Villa '    ,   -         ,"  .  • 

Joseph  Mitchell — 

The  Charms  of  Indolence       .  . 

John  Gay — 

The  Lion,  the  Fox,  and  the  Geese     \ 

The  Lion  and  the  Cub 

The  Ratcatcher  and  Cats 

The  Old  Woman  and  her  Cats  .  . 

The  Butterfly  and  the  Snail    , 

The  Fox  at  the  point  of  Death 

The  Mastiff    ..... 

The  Turkey  and  the  Ant 

The  Two  Monkeys     .  ... 

The  Man  and  the  Flea 

Verses  to  be  placed  under  the  Picture  of  Sir  Richard 

Blackmore  .... 

A  New  Song  of  New  Similes 

Lisle— 

Eurydice         .  .  •  .  • 

Samuel  Wesley  (Junr.) — 

On  the  setting-up  Mr.  Butler's  Monument  in  West 

minster  Abbey     .... 
Advice  to  one  who  was  about  to  write,  to  avoid  the 

Immoralities  of  the  Ancient  and  Modern  Poets 

Matthew  Green — 

An  Epigram  on  the  Rev.  Mr.  Laurence  Eachard's  and 

Bishop  Gilbert  Burnet's  Histories 
The  Sparrow  and  Diamond    . 

Robert  Dodsley — 

The  Footman  .... 

SOAME  Jenyns — 

Song  ...... 


175 
178 
180 
181 

185 
186 
186 
188 
189 
190 
191 
192 
192 
194 

19s 
195 

197 

198 
198 

20  r 
202 

203 

206 


xu 


CONTENTS. 


Henry  Fielding — 

Plain  Truth    ...... 

An  Epistle  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole     .  ,  , 

Lord  Lyttelton  (George  Lyttelton) — 

To  Miss  Lucy  Fortescue,  on  her  pleading  want  of  time 

John  Bancks  — 

To  Boreas         ..... 

William  Whitehead — ' 

Variety  ..... 

Thomas  Gray — 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favourite  Cat        .  . 

Bishop  (William)  Barnard — 

Verses  ...... 

Thomas  Warton  (Junior)-^ 

The  Progi-ess  of  Discontent      .  .  . 

Oliver  Goldsmith — 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bedchamber 

John  Cunningham — 

The  Fox  and  the  Cat  .... 
Charles  Churchill — 

The  Journey     ..... 
John  Wolcot — 

To  a  Fish  of  the  Brooke 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas 

The  Sailor-Boy  at  Prayers 

Bozzy  and  Piozzi  .... 

A  Poetical,  Supplicating,  Modest,  and  Affecting  Epistle 
to  those  literary  Colossuses  the  Reviewers 

A  Lyric  Ode    ..... 

To  Myself         .  .  .  ,  . 

Farewell  Odes  (1786),  L 

II.         . 

Charles  Morris — 

The  Contrast    ,  .  .  ,  , 

Hannah  More — 

The  Bas  Bleu  ..... 


PAGE 

206 
208 


209 


CONTENTS. 


xiu 


Charles  Dibdin — 
Jack  at  the  Opera 
One 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan- 
Ode  to  Scandal 

Thomas  Chatterton — 
February,  an  Elegy      , 

George  Crabbe — 
The  Dumb  Orators 
The  Widow     . 

William  Blake — 

The  Little  Vagabond  . 
Orator  Prig 

George  Colman  (Junr.) — 
The  Newcastle  Apothecary 

Robert  Bloomfield— 
The  Horkey     . 

Richard  Alfred  Millikin — 
The  Fair  Maid  of  Passage 

Simon  Quin — 

The  Town  of  Passage  . 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis — 
Grim,  King  of  the  Ghosts 

Robert  Southey— 
To  a  Goose 
The  Poet  relates  how  he     ole  a  lock  of  Delia 
Epistle  to  Allan  Cunningham 
The  Pious  Painter 
St.  Romuald     .  , 

Charles  Lamb — 

A  Farewell  to  Tobacco 

James  Smith — 

The  Baby's  Debut  (Wordsworth) 
The  Theatre  (Crabbe)      , 


Hair 


269 
270 

271 

275 

277 
288 

298 
299 

299 

302 

307 
308 

309 

313 
314 
315 
324 
327 

329 

332 
334 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Horace  Smith — 

Loyal  Effusion  (Fitzgerald)      * 
A  Tale  of  Drury  Lane  (Scott) 
Drury's  Dirge  (Laura  Matilda) 
Architectural  Atoms  (Dr.  B.)  . 
The  Jester  Condemned  to  Death 

Patrick  O'Kelly— 

The  Doneraile  Litany  , 

Orlando  Thomas  Dobbin— 


337 
338 
343 
344 
349 

350 


My  Manx  Mmx 

•            » 

.352 

A  Dithyramb  on  Cats 

•            • 

.       354 

POEMS  BY  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

Women        i     .       .     _       ; 

■*v 

.*       357 

A  Good  Medicine  for  Sore  Eyne 

J       358 

Trust  in  Women      . 

.'       358 

Gossip  Mine 

360 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old 

.       362 

As  it  befell  one  Saturday    . 

;    36s 

Mark  More,  Fool    , 

367 

The  Poor  Man  and  the  King 

371 

Songs  of  Shepherds 

J    377 

Robin  Goodfellow  .            ; 

•    379 

The  Song  of  the  Beggar      , 

.    381 

A  New-Year's  Gift  for  Shrews 

.    383 

Lines  on  a  Printing  Office  . 

.    384 

The  May- Pole 

•                     •                     1 

.    384 

There  was  an  Old  Man  came  over  the  Lea            ; 

.    385 

The  New  Litany     . 

•                «                ■ 

.    386 

The  Clean  Contrary  Way  . 

t               •                1 

;     388 

The  Anarchy           .            , 

■              I              J 

•     390 

Joan's  Ale  was  New            , 

-                   n 

•                   t                   1 

J    392 

The  Reformation     . 

>1                                   N                                  /I 
•                                   1                                   t 

""'     393 

The  Sale  of  Rebellion's  Household  Stuff  . 

•     396 

The  Devil's  Progress  on  Earth 

•                                   •                                   • 

398 

The  Desponding  Whig 

ff                                   «                                   t 

I    400 

CONTENTS. 

XV 

PAGE 

The  Cameroniaii  Cat           .            .            ,            ;            .401 

Titus  Gates  in  the  Pillory 

402 

Cosmelia      .             . 

402 

Phillida  Flouts  me  . 

403 

One  Denial 

405 

An  Echo  Song 

405 

Chloe  and  Coelia     . 

406 

Get  up  and  Bar  the  Door 

406 

Nature  and  Fortune 

407 

At  Church   . 

408 

Kissing         , 

409 

There  was  an  Old  "Woman 

409 

The  Merry  Man 

410 

The  Court  of  Aldermen  at 

Fishmongers'  Hall       "% 

412 

AMERICAN  WRITERS. 
John  Quincy  Adams — ' 

The  Plague  in  the  Forest  ,  , 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck — 

Red  Jacket       .  >  •  . 

Alnwick  Castle  .  .  . 

John  Gardner  Calkins  Brainard— 

Sonnet  to  the  Sea  Serpent  .  , 

George  P.  Morris — 

The  Retort       .  •  •  . 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier — 

The  Demon  of  the  Study  .  . 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes — 

The  Treadmill  Song    .  ,  , 

The  Music-Grinders     .  \  , 

To  an  Insect    .  .  "  i 

The  Spectre  Pig  ,  \  \ 

Park  Benjamin  — 

Indolence         .  .  •  ." 

Matthew  C.  Field— 

To  my  Shadow     •  ,     • 


414 

417 
419 

422 

423 

423 

426 
427 
429 
430 

433 

434, 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


John  Godfrey  Saxe— 
The  Ghost-Player 
I'm  Growing  Old 
A  Reflective  Retrospect 
Early  Rising     . 
Little  Jerry  the  Miller 

James  Russell  Lowell — 
Festina  Lente  . 
The  Courtin'     . 
Birdofredom  Sawin,     I. 
XI. 

III. 

The  Pious  Editor's  Creed 
Sunthin'  in  the  Pastoral  Line  . 
Mr.   Hosea  Biglow  to   the   Editor 
Monthly    , 


of  the  Atlantic 


Walt  Whitman — 

A  Boston  Ballad  .  , 

Charles  G.  Leland — 

Manes  .... 

John  Hay— 
Jim  Bludso 
The  Mystery  of  Gilgal 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman — 
Pan  in  Wall  Street 

F.  Bret  Harte — 

The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus 

Penelope 

To  the  Pliocene  Skull 

Robert  H.  Newell — 

The  American  Traveller 


434 
436 
437 
439 
440 

441 

443 
446 

448 
452 
458 
460 

467 
471 

473 

474 
<  I 

476 

478 

479 
480 

481 


PREFACE. 


A  VOLUME  of  Humorous  Poems  speaks  for  itself  distinctly- 
enough  to  save  its  editor  the  task  of  saying  anything  at 
great  length.  Most  readers  have  a  predilection  for  humor- 
ous writing.  Many  seek  it  as  their  natural  and  special 
j)abulum:  many  others  delight  in  it  as  an  occasional  varia- 
tion and  relief  from  more  general  or  graver  reading.  If 
therefore  the  present  Selection  has  been  put  together  with 
any  reasonable  amount  of  discernment,  I  have  little  appre- 
hension that  my  labour  may  have  been  spent  in  vain.  This 
is  of  course  far  from  being  the  first  attempt  of  its  kind ; 
but  I  fancy  it  may  be  one  of  the  most  extensive  in  its  range, 
and  in  the  number,  diversity,  calibre,  and  in  several  in- 
stances in  the  length,  of  the  pieces  that  it  comprises. 
Ninety-six  authors  are  here  represented ;  and  the  number 
of  compositions  (including  such  as  are  anonymous)  is  two 
hundred  and  twenty-six. 

I  shall  not  essay  to  furnish  anything  like  a  true  definition 

h 


xviii  PREFA  CE. 


of  the  peculiar  faculty  or  quality  named  Humour.  Most 
people  possess  a  tolerable  internal  perception  of  what  it  is, 
combined  with  a  considerable  indifference  to  having  their 
perception  distinctly  formulated  to  themselves,  whether  by 
others  or  by  an  effort  of  their  own  reason.  Perhaps  the 
most  essential  thing  to  be  remarked  on  the  subject  is  that 
Humour  is  a  matter  mainly  of  character,  while  Wit  is  more 
an  emanation  of  the  mind.^  We  could  not  have  a  witty 
man  who  was  not  in  some  sense  a  clever  man  :  but  we 
might  easily  have — and  in  life  we  often  come  across — 
humorous  men  who  are  not  exactly  clever,  but  possess  this 
endowment  of  humour  as  a  part  of  their  idiosyncrasy.  It 
is  a  portion  of  their  character,  and  a  habit  of  their  lives  : 
they  see  things  humorously,  and  can,  with  more  or  less 
nicety  and  vivacity,  impart  their  perceptions,  whether  with 
or  without  the  adjunct  of  wit.  A  rough  or  even  a  dull  ex- 
terior is  by  no  means  incompatible  with  a  humorous  turn  : 
and  this  latter  argues  very  generally  a  certain  robust  kindli- 
ness of  nature,  of  which  the  term  "fellow-feeling"  is  per- 
haps the  clearest  expression.  The  humorous  man  is — in  so 
far  at  least  as  he  is  humorous — never  far  removed  from  his 
kind  :  the  strong  lines  of  men's  characters,  their  foibles, 
their  oddities,  the  vicissitudes  and  contradictions  of  their 
lives,  all  find  out  in  him  one  of  like  fibre  with  themselves, 
"  a  man  and  a  brother,"  Not  that  every  humourist  is  an 
amiable  person — far  from  it :  but  the  faculty  of  humour 
belongs  essentially  to  man  as  a  gregarious  animal — it  is 
developed  by  society  of  the  civilized  kind  (or  at  any  rate 
some  removes  from  barbarism),  and  in  society  it  finds  its 
subject-matter  and  continual  incentive.  A  hermit  or  a 
Robinson  Crusoe  could  not  be,  or  could  not  long  remain,  a 

1  I  dare  say|this  is  anything  but  an  original  observation.  It  is  not  consciously 
repeated  here  from  any  other  writer  :  but,  if  it  has  been  said  before,  and  is  worth 
reclaiming,  I  can  only  leave  it  to  be  re-assigned  by  accurate  mertories  lo  its 
proper  source. 


PREFACE.  xix 


humourist  :  though  some  residuum  of  the  faculty  might 
indeed  be  exercised  upon  a  parrot,  monkey,  or  other  con- 
genial beast  that  the  recluse  might  have  been  lucky  enough 
to  catch.  The  deficiency  of  humour  in  women  (contrasting 
so  markedly  with  their  resources  in  wit)  has  often  been 
noted.  This  volume  may  serve  to  confirm  the  observation. 
Out  of  ninety-six  authors  who  figure  here,  only  two  (Kathar- 
ine Philips  and  Hannah  More)  are  women  ;  and  certainly 
the  quality  traceable  in  the  specimens  from  them  is  not 
humour,  properly  so  called — rather  the  quickness  of  eye 
and  neatness  of  phrase  which  belong  to  wit. 

Humour  is,  in  an  intense  degree,  at  once  individual  and 
expansive.  It  depends  upon  a  specialty  of  character ;  it 
affects  all  persons  with  whom  it  comes  in  contact ;  and  it 
produces  in  the  humourist's  own  mind  a  recast  of  all  his 
experiences — they  become  to  him  very  different  from  what 
they  are  j)er  se,  or  what  they  would  seem  were  he  not  a 
humourist.  If  he  is  furthermore  a  humourist  with  a  gift  of 
expression  or  of  writing,  he  naturally  produces  something 
that  has  a  flavour  of  its  own— something  fairly  proper  to 
himself,  and  (in  the  higher  classes  of  humouristic  writing) 
genuinely  original.  While  humour  is  thus,  as  I  have  termed 
it,  "expansive,"  wit  is  intensive  or  incisive.  Humour  mo- 
difies its  subject-matter — and  cannot  help  doing  so,  because 
the  humourist  is  compelled  to  see  everything  through  the 
spectacles  of  his  own  strong  individuality :  Wit  irradiates 
or  illustrates  its  subject-matter,  but  leaves  it  substantially 
unmodified. 

I  make  no  pretence,  however,  to  confining  this  volume  to 
such  poems  as  are,  strictly  speaking,  humorous,  without 
admixture  of  those  that  are  witty.  Many  are  humorous, 
some  witty  :  some  are  both  witty  and  humorous  :  some 
may  be  sprightly,  others  quaint,  without  cither  humour  or 
wit  in  any  very  large  or  definite  proportion.   Yet  I  trust  and 


XX  PREFACE. 


think  that  the  volume  will  be  found  humorous  in  the  main, 
and  readable  throughout,  and  well  corresponding  to  its  title 
of  Humorous  Poems. 

For  several  generations  past,  the  British  nation  has  been 
celebrated  among  continental  critics  for  its  humour.    Now, 
Englishmen  can  contemplate  in  their  brethren  across  the 
Atlantic — in  the  Americans  of  the  United  States,  a  vigor- 
ously re-mixed  race,  arising  out  of  the  British  and  other 
mixed  races  of  the  old  world — an  offshoot  of  their  own 
humour,  perceptibly  allied  to  that,  yet  very  visibly  varied 
from  it  too.    We  may  fancy  ourselves,  in  this  regard,  watch- 
ing some  such  process  as  that  so  often  spoken  of  by  Darwin 
— the  "  Variation  of  Species  under  Domestication  " ;  watch- 
ing the  wider  and  wider  variation,  until  at  last  the  diver- 
gence shall  be  so  great  as  to  constitute  seemingly  a  new 
species— which  we,  however  (more  fortunate  than  the  Dar- 
winian man  of  science  when  he  has  to  deal  with  animals 
living  in  a  state  of  nature)  shall  know  of  a  surety,  having 
followed  all   the  successive   steps   of  modification,   to  be 
nothing  more  than  a  much  transformed  variety.     Perhaps, 
on  the  whole,  American  humour  at  the  present  day  is  in 
somewhat  closer  alliance  with  wit  than  is  English  humour  : 
there  is  more  of  the  caprice  of  mind  in  it,  and  possibly  less 
personal  caprice.     The  English  humourist  is  essentially  an 
eccentric— a  "  queer  fellow,"  or  (as  we  so  often  say,  touching 
herein  the  very  core  of  humour)  "  quite  a  character."    This 
tendency  of  the  insnlaire  britannique  has  been  continually 
recognized  and  enforced  by  foreign  critics  ;  and  so  consen- 
taneously that  we  may  be  assured  it  is  true,   even  if  we 
Britons,  being  ourselves  the  subject  out  of  which  the  re- 
mark arises,  perceive  little  of  it  of  our  own  accord.     The 
American  humourist  is  not  so  much  an  eccentric,  pursuing 
a  devious  path  because  his  nature  is  to  deviate  :  he  is  rather 
a  fantastic  person  than  an  eccentric,  and  plays  pranks  be- 


PREFACE.  xxi 


cause  he  finds  in  himself  an  endless  facility  for  playing 
them.  The  Englishman's  humour  (I  speak  of  c  urse  of 
the  typical  or  crucial  instances)  is  a  dogged  quality,  innate, 
and  more  clearly  manifest  to  others  than  to  himself :  the 
American's  humour  is  a  faculty^  exercised  masterfully  and 
with  a  sense  of  enjoyment. 

As  regards  the  notices  of  authors  which  I  have  prefixed 
to  the  several  specimens,  it  will  be  observed  that,  the  more 
eminent  a  writer  is,  the  less  I  say  about  him.  This  seems 
to  me  the  only  appropriate  course  in  such  an  undertaking. 
Anything  which  I  could  here  put  forward  about  men  of  the 
rank  and  celebrity  of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Butler,  Dryden,  or 
Swift,  would  be  nugatory,  if  not  even  impertinent ;  but 
some  brief  remarks  about  less-known  writers,  such  as 
Donne,  Vaughan,  or  Whittier,  highly  deserving  as  they  are 
of  attention,  or  others  who  constitute  the  honourable  rank 
and  file  of  our  array,  appear  to  be  both  relevant  and  conve- 
nient. The  arrangement  of  the  works,  as  will  readily  be 
perceived,  is  chronological  throughout,  according  to  the 
dates  of  the  writers'  births  wherever  known. 

There  remain  to  be  said  a  few  words  as  to  the  precise 
scope  of  the  present  collection.  It  does  not  profess  to  be 
in  any  sense  exhaustive ;  yet  none  the  less  it  has  been 
compiled  out  of  a  great  number  of  volumes,  whether  of 
single  authors  or  of  miscellaneous  gatherings,  and  I  have 
been  heedful  in  choosing  what  seem  to  me  the  best  and 
most  appropriate  pieces,  to  the  exclusion  of  numberless 
others  which  come  up  nearly,  but  not  quite,  to  an  equal 
standard.  There  have  besides  been  some  definite  limita- 
tions which  require  to  be  taken  into  account :  otherwise 
the  selection  might  seem  in  various  respects  arbitrary,  and 
the  exclusions  wanton  or  even  invidious.  The  reader 
should  therefore  understand  that  I  have  on  system  omitted 
— I,   all   copyright  poems,  and   consequently   (in  general 


xxii  PREFACE. 


terms)  anything  published  by  a  Uving  British  author,^  or 
within  the  last  forty-two  years ;  2,  all  poems  by  authors 
whose  works  form  separate  volumes  in  the  series  of  Moron's 
Popular  Poets.  Where  the  material  for  selection  is  so 
abundant,  it  has  seemed  to  me  unreasonable,  and  in  other 
respects  inexpedient,  to  reproduce  writings  of  this  class  : 
but  the  limitation  makes  some  rather  startling  gaps  in  our 
ranks — especially  as  regards  Pope,  Burns,  and  Hood ;  the 
latter  a  host  in  himself,  and  perhaps  the  very  first  author 
whom  a  reader  expects  to  find  in  a  Humorous  compilation. 
I  have  further  omitted — 3,  Songs  or  Ballads,  which  again 
may  not  improbably  be  included  in  our  series  in  some  other 
guise  ;  and  here  I  have  had  to  decide  for  myself  the  ques- 
tion— in  many  cases  a  very  nice  one — whether  a  composi- 
tion should  be  regarded  as  a  lyric,  and  as  such  admissible, 
or  rather  as  a  song,  and  as  such  to  be  left  aside.  I  have 
mostly  considered  that  a  composition  actually  set  to  music, 
or  one  that  is  obviously  framed  for  being  so  set,  or  one  with 
a  burden,  is  a  song  ;  provided  in  each  case  the  composition 
is  of  verv  moderate  length.  Or  a  short  piece  of  a  generally 
song-like  character,  and  with  much  unity  and  little  progres- 
sion of  subject-matter,  has  in  like  manner  been  regarded  as 
more  song  than  lyric.  Again,  my  omissions  apply  to — 4,  all 
poems  of  really  considerable  length  ;  5,  any  and  every  mere 
extract  (which  I  eschew  on  principle)  from  any  poem  what- 
soever ;  6,  pieces  that  are  so  enormously  well-known  as  to 
be — whatever  their  intrinsic  merits — almost  tiresome  and 
pestering  to  encounter  anew.  Thus  I  have  excluded  Gold- 
smith's Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog,  Lowell's  poem 
about   "  John  P.    Robinson,"   and   Bret   Harte's   Heathen 

1  The  only  living  (non-American)  writer  here  represented  is  the  Rev.  Dr, 
Dobbin — see  p.  352.  I  have  gladly  availed  myself  of  his  permission  to  include 
the  two  bright  and  quaint  sallies  which  appear'under  his  name  :  but  these  are 
not  copyright  in  the  ordinary  sense, — i.e.,  though  previously  printed,  they  had 
never  been  published. 


PREFACE.  xxiii 


Chinee,     And,  lastly— without,  I  hope,  lapsing  into  utter 
and  unmanly  squeamishness  —  I   have    carefully    avoided 
poems  which  are  gross  or  indecent  in  general  drift,  or  even 
in  particular  expressions  ;  for  the  present  volume  is  not  put 
together  for  the  use  of  any  section — or  rather  so  as  to  be 
ill-adapted  to  any  other  section— of  the  reading  public,  but 
for  all  readers,  without  exception,  who  may  be  minded  to 
acquaint  themselves  with  the  riches  of  our  humorous  poetry, 
or  to  refresh  their  recollection  of  it.    To  any  one  who  knows 
our  elder  writers— or  I  might  broadly  say  all  our  writers 
save  those  of  a  very  modern  date — I  need  hardly  observe 
that  this  precaution,  especially  where  humorous  poetry  is 
concerned,  entails  very  many  exclusions,  and  often  of  the 
author's   raciest   and  most   characteristic   work ;    for    the 
British  humourist  has  been  a  personage  the  reverse  of 
mealy-mouthed.     To  take   only  the   first   instance   in  our 
volume,  that  of  Chaucer :  out  of  the  several  excellent  ex- 
amples of  his  sportive  vein,  I  have,  through  this  single 
consideration,  been  obliged  to  abandon  all  except  the  two 
that  are  here  given  ;  and  of  these  the  first,  the  Chanouii's 
YemarCs   Tale^   is   hardly  of  his   prime   quality,   and  the 
second,  the  Nunne  Priest's  Tale,  though  most  admirable  in 
other  respects,  is  less  strictly  and  continuously  humorous 
than  various  others.     True,  I  might  in  many  cases  have 
managed  to  include  poems  mainly  unexceptionable,  if  only 
I  would  have  consented  to  miss  out  a  verse  or  a  phrase 
here  and  there ;  but  this  process  I  regard  as  wholly  for- 
bidden, by  literary  honesty  and  ordinary  self-respect,  to  any 
serious  editor. 

I  have  also  made  very  sparing  use  of  poems  in  provincial 
and  other  patois — though  I  have  freely  admitted  such  as 
are  in  the  Yankee  dialect,  and  some  in  the  Scottish ;  and  I 
have  mostly  held  aloof  from  the  prepense  narrative  jocu- 
larity, the  funny  anecdotes  in  verse,  of  writers  like  the 


XXIV 


PREFACE. 


younger  Colman  and  Dr.  Wolcot.  This  is  a  sort  of  writing 
which  seems  to  me,  in  general,  more  jocose  than  humorous, 
and  deserving  of  only  a  very  subordinate  place  in  a  collec- 
tion like  the  present. 

The  reader  will,  I  trust,  agree  with  me  that,  while  much 
has  been  omitted  which  might,  on  other  grounds,  rightly 
claim  to  be  included,  what  figures  here  is  good  and  choice, 
and  sufficient  to  leave  no  qualm  of  regret  behind  it.  What- 
ever the  limitations  and  exclusions,  enough  and  to  spare  is 
still  before  us.  The  Humourists  are  the  "  rulers  of  the 
feast";  and  they  have  spread  the  table  for  us  with  a  con- 
tinual banquet, 

W.  M.  ROSSETTI. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


ENGLISH    WRITERS. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

[Circa  1340  to  1400.] 

THE  CHANOUN'S  YEMAN'S  TALE. 

In  London  was  a  priest,  an  annueler,^ 
That  therein  dwelled  hadde^  many  a  year, 
Which  was  so  pleasant  and  so  sei'viceable 
Unto  the  wife  whereas  he  was  at  table 
That  she  would  suffer  him  nothinfj  for  to  pay 
For  board  ne  clothing,  went  he  never  so  gay, 
And  spending-silver  had  he  right  enow. 
Thereof  no  force  :  I  wol  proceed  as  now, 
And  telle  forth  my  tale  of  the  chanoun 
That  brought  this  prieste.  to  confusion. 

i  /.  e.,  a.  priest  employed  solely  in  singing  annuals,  or  anniversary  masses,  for 
the  dead. 

2  For  the  purpose  of  a  popular  compilation  like  the  present,  it  appears  to  me 
best  (however  unscholarly)  to  modernize  the  spelling  of  Chaucer  m  all  cases 
where  this  can  be  done  without  obviously  tampering  with  the  pronunciation. 
As  regards  the  use  of  the  e  mute  at  the  end  of  words  or  elsewhere — a  point  of 
such  prime  importance  to  the  rhythm — the  reader  should  understand  that, 
where  this  letter  would  not  occur  at  all  in  modern  spelling  (as  in  the  present 
word,  "hadde"),  I  simply  leave  the  letter,  if  it  counts  as  a  syllable,  without 
marking  it  with  any  sign  of  accentuation  ;  but,  in  other  cases,  where  the  e 
would  occur  in  modern  spelling  also  (as  in  the  words  "dwelled"  and  "false"), 
but  would  not  be  pronounced,  I  mark  it  with  an  accent,  provided  the  rhythm 
of  Chaucer  demands  its  pronvuiciation.  This  is  a  very  simple  rule,  and  I  hope 
an  easy  one  to  apply  in  practice.  The  same  course  is  followed  as  regards  the 
spelling  of  the  ensuing  poem  by  Adam  of  Cobsam. 


CHAUCER. 


This  false  chanoun  came  upon  a  day 
Unto  the  prieste's  chambei*  where  he  lay, 
Beseeching  him  to  lene  him  a  certain 
Of  gold,  and  he  would  quit  it  him  again. 
"Lene  me  a  mark,"  quod  he,  "but  dayes  three, 
And  at  my  day  I  will  it  quite  thee. 
And,  if  so  be  that  thou  finde  me  false, 
Another  day  hong  me  up  by  the  halse." 

This  priest  him  took  a  mai'k,  and  that  as  swithe  ; 
Aad  this  chanoun  him  thanked  ofte  sith«. 
And  took  his  leave,  and  wente  forth  his  way  ; 
And  atte  thridde  day  brought  his  money, 
Arid  to  the  priest  he  took  his  gold  again — 
Whereof  this  priest  was  wonder  glad  and  fain. 

"  Certes,"  quod  he,  "  nothing  annoyeth  me 
To  lene  a  man  a  noble,  or  two  or  three. 
Or  what  thing  were  in  my  possession, 
Whan  he  so  true  is  of  condition 
That  in  no  wise  he  breake  wol  his  day  : 
To  such  a  man  I  can  never  say  nay." 

"What !  "  quod  this  chanoun,  "should  I  be  untrue? 

Nay,  that  were  thing  yfallen  of  the  new  ! 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  I  wol  ever  keep 

Unto,  that  day  in  which  that  I  shall  creep 

Into  my  grave,  and  elles  God  forbede  ! 

Believeth  that  as  sicker  as  your  creed. 

God  thank  I,  and  in  good  time  be  it  said, 

That  there  was  never  man  yet  evil-apaid 

For  gold  ne  silver  that  he  to  me  lent, 

Ne  never  falsehood  in  my  heart  I  meant. 

And,  sir,"  quod  he,  "  now  of  my  privity, 

Sin'  ye  so  goodlicli  have  be  unto  me, 

And  kylhed  to  me  so  great  gentilesse. 

Somewhat  to  quite  with  your  kindeness, 

I  will  you  show,  and,  if  you  lust  to  lere, 

E  will  you  teache  plainly,  the  mannere 

How  I  can  worken  in  philosophy. 

Taketh  good  heed,  ye  shul  seen  well  at  ye 

That  I  wol  doon  a  maistry  ere  I  go." 

"Yea?"  quod  the  priest,  "yea,  sir,  and  wul  ye  so? 
Mary  !  thereof  I  pray  you  heartily." 

"At  your  commandement,  sir,  truely," 

Quod  the  chanoun,  "  and  elles  God  forbede  ! " 

Lo  how  this  thief  couthe  his  service  beed  !^ 
Full  sooth  it  is  that  such  proffered  service 

1  Offer. 


CHAUCER. 


Stinketh,  as  witnessen  these  olde  wise. 

And  that  full  soon  I  wol  it  verify 

In  this  chanoun,  root  of  all  treachery, 

That  evermore  delight  liath  and  gladness 

(Such  fiendly  thoughtes  in  his  heart  impress) 

How  Christe's  people  he  may  to  mischief  bring. 

God  keep  us  from  his  false  dissimiling  ! 

What  wiste  this  priest  with  whom  that  he  dealt  ? 

Ne  of  his  harm  coming  he  nothing  felt 

O  silly  priest,  O  silly  innocent, 

With  covetise  anon  thou  shalt  be  blent !  "■ 

O  graceless  3  full  blind  is  thy  conceit : 

Nothing  art  thou  ware  of  the  deceit 

Which  that  this  fox  yshapen  hath  to  thee  !  ^  ' 

His  wily  wrenches  I  wis  thou  mayst  not  flee. 

Wherefore — to  go  to  the  conclusion 

That  referreth  to  thy  confusion, 

Unhappy  man — anon  I  will  me  hie 

To  telleii  thine  unwit  and  thy  folly, 

And  eke  the  falseness  of  that  other  wretch, 

Als  farforth  as  my  cunning  wolle  stretch. 

This  chanoun  was  my  lord,  ye  woulde  ween  ?  * 

Sir  ost,  in  faith,  and  by  the  heaven  queen, 

It  was  another  chanoun,  and  not  he. 

That  can  an  hundred-fold  more  subtlety. 

He  hath  betrayed  folkes  many  time  : 

Of  his  falseness  it  dulleth  me  to  rhyme. 

Ever  whan  I  speake  of  his  falsehede. 

For  shame  of  him  my  cheekes  wexen  reed. 

Algates  -^  they  beginne  for  to  glow  ; 

For  reedness  have  I  none,  right  well  I  know, 

In  my  visage,  for  fumes  diverse 

Of  metals,  which  ye  han  heard  me  rehearse, 

Consumed  and  wasted  han  my  reedness. — 

Now  take  heed  of  this  chanoun's  cursedness. 

"Sir,"  quod  he  to  the  priest,  "let  your  man^oen 

For  quicksilver,  tliat  we  it  had  anon  ; 

And  let  him  bringe  ounces  two  or  three  ; 

And,  whan  he  cometh,  as  fast  shul  ye  see 

A  wonder  thing  which  ye  saw  never  ere  this." 

"Sir,"  quod  the  priest,  "it  shall  be  done,  I  wis." 

He  bad  his  servant  fetche  him  his  things  ; 
And  he  all  ready  was  at  his  biddings. 
And  went  him  forth,  and  com  anon  again 
With  this  quicksilver,  shortly  for  to  sayn,' 

J   Blinded. 

*  This  and  some  other  allusions  in  the  tale  of  the  Canon's  Yeoman  refer  back 
to  what  he  had  stated  in  his  "  prologue,"  given  by  Chaucer  as  introductory  to 
his  "  tale."  3  Now,  already. 


CHAUCER. 


i 


And  took  these  ounces  three  to  the  chanoun. 
And  he  it  laide  fair  and  well  adoun, 
And  bad  the  servant  coales  for  to  bring, 
That  he  anon  might  go  to  his  working. 
The  coales  right  anon  weren  yfett ; 
And  this  chanoun  took  out  a  croselet  ^ 
Of  his  bosom,  and  showed  it  to  the  priest. 

"This  instrument,"  quod  ht,  "which  that  thou  seest. 

Take  in  thine  hond  ;  and  put  thyself  therein 

Of  this  quicksilver  an  ounce  ;  and  here  begin, 

In  the  name  of  Christ,  to  wax  a  philosopher. 

There  been  full  few  which  that  I  woulde  proffer 

To  showe  hem  thus  much  of  my  science : 

For  ye  shul  seen  here  by  experience 

That  this  quicksilver  I  wul  mortify 

Right  in  your  sight  anon,  withouten  lie, 

And  make  it  as  good  silver  and  as  iine 

As  there  is  any  in  your  purse  or  mine. 

Or  elleswhere  ;  and  make  it  malleable  : — 

And  elles  holdeth  me  false,  and  unable 

Amonges  folk  forever  to  appear. 

I  have  a  powder  here,  that  cost  me  dear, 

Shall  mal^e  all  good  ;  for  it  is  cause  of  all 

My  cunning  which  that  I  you  showe  shall. 

Voideth  your  man,  and  let  him  be  thereout ; 

And  shet  the  doore  whiles  we  ben  about 

Our  privity,  that  no  man  us  aspie 

Whiles  we  werken  in  this  philosophy. 

All,  as  he  bad,  fulfilled  was  in  deed. 
This  ilke  servant  anon  right  out-yede  ; 
And  his  maister  shitte  the  door  anon. 
And  to  here  labour  speedily  they  gone. 

This  priest,  at  this  cursed  chanoun's  bidding. 

Upon  the  fire  anon  sette  this  thing, 

And  blew  the  fire,  and  busied  him  full  fast. 

And  this  chanoun  into  the  croslet  cast 

A  powder — noot  I  whereof  that  it  was 

Ymade,  outher  of  chalk  outlier  of  glass. 

Or  somewhat  elles  was  nought  worth  a  fly. 

To  blinde  with  this  priest ;  and  bad  him  hie. 

These  coales  for  to  couchen  all  above 

The  croislet ;  for,  "in  tokening  I  thee  love," 

Quod  this  chanoun,  "thine  owne  handes  two 

Shall  wirche  all  thing  which  that  shall  be  do." 

"  Graunt-mercy,"  quod  the  priest ;  and  was  full  glad. 
And  couched  coales  as  the  chanoun  bad. 


1  Crucible. 


CHAUCER. 


And,  while  he  busy  was,  this  fiendly  wretch, 
This  false  chanoun  (the  foule  fiend  him  fetch  !) 
Out  of  his  bosom  took  a  bechen  coal, 
In  which  full  subtilly  was  made  an  hole ; 
And  therein  put  was  of  silver  limayl  ^ 
An  ounce,  and  stopped  was  withoute  fail 
The  hole  with  wex,  to  keep  the  limayl  in. 
And  understondeth  that  this  false  gin 
Was  not  made  there,  but  it  was  made  before  : 
And  other  thinges  1  shall  telle  more 
Hereafterward  which  that  he  with  him  brought 
Ere  he  com  there,  to  beguile  him  he  thought, 
And  so  he  dede,  ere  they  went  atwin  : 
Till  he  had  turned  him,  couth  he  nought  blyn.' 
It  dulleth  me  whan  that  I  of  him  speak  : 
On  his  falsehede  fain  would  I  me  wreak, 
If  I  wist  how  ;  but  he  is  here  and  there, — 
He  is  so  variant  he  byt**  nowhere. 

But  taketh  heed  now,  sirs,  for  Goddes  love. 

He  took  his  coal  of  which  I  spake  above, 

And  in  his  hond  he  bare  it  privily  : 

And,  whiles  the  prieste  couclied  busily 

The  coales,  as  I  tolde  you  ere  this, 

This  chanoun  saide  :   "  Friend,  ye  doon  amiss  : 

This  is  not  couched  as  it  oughte  be  ; 

But  soon  I  shall  amenden  it,"  quod  he. 

"Now  let  me  melle  therewith  but  awhile. 

For  of  you  have  I  pity,  by  Saint  Gile  ! 

Ye  been  right  hot,  I  see  well  how  ye  sweat  : 

Have  here  a  cloth,  and  wipe  away  the  wet. " 

And,  whiles  that  this  priest  him  wiped  has. 
This  chanoun  took  his  coal  (I  shrew  his  face !) 
And  laid  it  aboven  on  the  midward 
Of  the  croslet,  and  blew  well  afterward, 
Till  that  the  coales  gonne  faste  brenn, 

"  Now  give  us  drinke,"  quod  the  chanoun  thes: 
"  Als  swithe  all  shall  be  well,  I  undertake. 
Sitte  we  down,  and  let  us  merry  make." 

And,  whan  that  the  chanounes  bechen  coal 
Was  brent,  all  tlie  limayl  out  of  the  hole 
Into  the  croslet  anon  fell  adouii ; 
And  so  it  muste  needes  by  reasoun. 
Since  it  so  even  above  couched  was. 
But  thereof  wist  the  priest  nothing,  alas  1 
He  deembd  all  the  coals  ilike  good, 
For  of  the  sleiglit  he  notliing  understood. 

J  Filings.  2  Cease.  ^  Abides. 


CHAUCER. 


And,  whan  this  alcamister  saw  his  time, 

"  Rise  up,  sir  priest,"  quod  he,  "  and  stonde  by  me  : 

And,  for  I  wot  well  ingot  have  ye  none, 

Goth,  walketh  forth,  and  bringe  a  chalk-stone  ; 

For  I  wol  make  it  of  the  same  shape 

That  is  an  ingold,  if  I  may  have  hap. 

And  bring  with  you  a  bowle  or  a  pan 

Full  of  water;  and  ye  shall  well  see  than 

How  that  our  business  shall  hap  and  preve. 

And  yit,  for  you  shoul  have  no  misbelieve 

Ne  wTong  conceit  of  me  ia  your  absence, 

I  ne  wol  nought  ben  out  of  your  presence, 

But  go  with  you,  and  come  with  you  again." 

Tlie  chamber-doore,  shortly  for  to  sayn 

They  opened  and  shet,  and  went  here  way  ; 

And  forth  with  hem  they  carried  the  key, 

And  comen  again  withouten  any  delay. 

What  should  I  tarry  all  the  longe  day  ? 

He  took  the  chalk,  and  shop^  it  in  the  wise 

Of  an  ingot,  as  I  shall  you  devise  : 

I  say,  he  took  out  of  his  owne  sleeve 

A  teyne^  of  silver  (evil  mot  he  eheeve  !)^ 

"Which  that  was  but  an  ounce  of  wight. 

And  taketh  heed  now  of  his  cursed  sleight : 

He  shop  his  ingot  in  length  and  in  brede 

Of  this  teyne,  withouten  any  dread. 

So  slyly  that  the  priest  it  nought  aspied  ; 

And  in  his  sleeve  again  he  gan  it  hide  ; 

And  fro  the  fire  he  took  up  his  matteer, 

And  into  the  ingot  put  it  with  merry  cheer  ; 

And  into  the  water-vessel  he  it  cast 

Whan  that  him  list ;  and  bad  this  priest  as  fast — 

"  Look  what  there  is  r  put  in  thine  hond,  and  grope 

Thou  finde  there  shalt  silver,  as  I  hope." 

What,  devil  of  helle,  should  it  elles  be? 

Shaving  of  silver  silver  is,  pardie  ! 


He  put  in  his  hond,  and  took  up  a  teyne 
Of  silver  fine  ;  and  glad  in  every  vein 
Was  this  priest  when  he  saw  it  was  so. 

"  Goddes  blessing,  and  his  moder's  also. 
And  alle  halwes',  have  ye,  sir  chanoun  1" 
Saide  this  priest  (and  I,  here  malison)  : 
"  But,  and  ye  vouchesauf  to  teache  me 
This  noble  craft  and  this  subtility, 
I  will  be  your  in  all  that  ever  I  may." 


1  Shaped.  ^  A  thin  piece.  ^  End. 


CHA  UCER. 


Quod  this  chanoun  :  "  Yet  wol  I  make  assay 
The  second  time,  that  ye  mow  taken  heed 
And  ben  expert  of  this  ;  and  in  your  need 
Another  day  assay  in  mine  absence 
This  discipline  and  this  crafty  science. 
Let  take  another  ounce,"  quod  he  tho, 
"  Of  quicksilver,  withouten  wordes  mo, 
And  do  therewith  as  ye  have  done  ere  this 
With  that  other  which  that  now  silver  is." 

The  priest  him  busyeth  in  all  that  he  can 
To  doon  as  this  chanoun,  this  cursed  man, 
Commanded  him  ;  and  faste  blew  the  fire 
For  to  come  to  the  effect  of  his  desire. 
And  this  chanoun  right  in  the  meanewhile 
All  ready  was  this  priest  eft  to  beguile  ; 
And,  for  a  countenance,  in  his  hond  bare 
An  hollow  sticke  (take  keep  and  be  M'are) 
In  the  end  of  which  an  ounce  and  no  more 
Of  silver  limayl  put  was,  as  befoi^e 
Was  in  his  coal,  and  stopped  with  wex  well 
For  to  keep  in  his  limayl  every  del. 
But,  while  the  priest  was  in  his  business, 
This  chanoun  with  his  sticke  gan  him  dress 
To  him  anon,  and  his  powder  cast  in, 
As  he  did  ere  (the  devil  out  of  his  skin 
Him  turn,  I  pray  to  God,  for  his  falsehead. 
For  he  was  ever  false  in  word  and  deed  !) 
And  with  this  stick  above  the  croslet. 
That  was  ordainfed  with  that  false  get,^ 
He  stirred  the  coales,  till  relente  gan 
The  wex  again  the  fire— as  every  man, 
But  it  a  fool  be,  woot  well  it  moot  need  ; 
And  all  that  in  the  hole  was  out-yede, 
And  into  the  croslet  hastily  it  fell. 
Now,  good  sires,  what  wol  ye  bet  than  well  ? 
Whan  that  this  priest  thus  was  beguiled  again — 
Supposing  not  but  truthe,  sooth  to  sayn, — 
He  was  so  glad  that  I  can  nought  express 
In  no  manner  his  mirth  and  his  gladness  : 
And  to  the  chanoun  he  proffered  eftsoon 
Body  and  good. 

"Yea,"  quod  the  chanoun,  "Soon, 
Though  poor  I  be,  crafty  thou  shalt  me  fmd  : 
1  warne  thee,  yet  is  fhcre  more  behind. 
Is  there  any  copper  here  within?"  quod  he. 

"Yea,  sir,"  quod  this  priest,  "I  trowe  tjiere  be." 
1  Contrivance,  device. 


CHA  UCER. 


"  Elles  go  buye  some,  and  that  as  switlie. 
Now,  good  sire,  go  forth  thy  way  and  hie  thee." 

He  went  his  way,  and  with  this  copper  came  : 

And  this  chanoun  it  in  his  hondes  name,^ 

And  of  that  copper  weighed  out  but  an  ounce. 

All  too  simple  is  my  tongue  to  pronounce, 

As  minister  of  my  wit,  the  doubleness 

Of  this  chanoun,  root  of  all  cursedness. 

He  seemed  friendly  to  hem  that  knew  him  nought, 

But  he  ivas  fiendly,  both  in  work  and  thought. 

It  wearieth  me  to  tell  of  his  falseness  : 

And  natheless  yit  wol  I  it  express, 

To  that  intent  men  may  be  ware  thereby, 

And  for  none  other  cause  truely. 

He  put  this  ounce  of  copper  in  the  croslet ; 

And  on  the  fire  als  swithe  he  hath  it  set, 

And  cast  in  powder,  and  made  the  priest  to  blow  : 

And,  in  his  worching  for  to  stoope  low, 

As  he  did  ere  (and  all  nas  but  a  jape), 

Right  as  him  list  the  priest  he  made  his  ape. 

And  afterward  in  the  ingot  he  it  cast ; 

And  in  the  panne  put  it,  atte  last. 

Of  water,  and  in  he  put  his  owne  bond. 

And  in  his  sleeve,  as  ye  befornhond 

Hearde  me  tell,  he  had  a  silver  teyne. 

He  slyly  took  it  out,  this  cursed  heyne 

(Unwittinge  this  priest  of  his  false  craft). 

And  in  the  panne's  bottom  he  hath  it  laft, 

And  in  the  water  rumbleth  to  and  fro  ; 

And  wonder  privily  took  up  also 

The  copper  teyne  (nought  knowing  this  priest), 

And  hid  it,  and  him  hente  by  the  breast, 

And  to  him  spake,  and  thus  said  in  his  game  : 

"  Stoopeth  adown  !  by  God,  ye  ben  to  blame  ! 

Helpeth  me  now,  as  I  dede  you  whilere  : 

Put  in  your  bond,  and  looke  what  is  there." 

This  priest  took  up  this  silver  teyne  anon. 
And  thanne  said  the  chanoun  :   "  Let  us  gone, 
"With  these  three  teynes  which  that  we  han  wrought, 
To  some  goldsmith,  and  wite  if  it  be  aught. 
'For  by  my  faith  I  nolde,  for  mine  hood, 
But  if  they  were  silver  fine  and  good  ; 
And  that  as  swithe  proved  shall  it  be." 

Unto  the  goldsmith  with  these  teynes  three 
They  went,  and  put  these  teynes  in  assay 
To  fire  and  hammer  :  might  no  man  say  nay 
But  that  they  were  as  hem  oughte  be. 

1  Took. 


CHAUCER. 


This  sotted  priest,  who  was  gladder  than  he  ? 
Was  never  brid  gladder  again  the  day  ; 
Ne  nightingale  in  the  seasoun  of  May 
Was  never  none  that  list  better  to  sing  ; 
Ne  lady  lustier  in  caroling, 
Or  for  to  speak  of  love  and  womanhede  ; 
Ne  knight  in  amies  doon  an  hardy  deed 
To  stond  in  grace  of  his  lady  dear, — 
Than  hadde  this  priest  this  craft  for  to  lere. 
And  to  the  chanoun  thus  he  spake  and  said  : 
"  For  the  love  of  God,  that  for  us  alle  deyd, 
And  as  I  may  deserve  it  unto  yow, 
What  shall  this  receipt  coste  ?     Telleth  now." 

"By  our  Lady,"  quod  the  chanoun,  "it  is  dear, 
I  warn  you  well ;  for,  save  I  and  a  frere, 
In  Engelond  there  can  no  man  it  make." 

''No  force,"  quod  he  ;  "now,  sir,  for  Goddes  sake, 
What  shall  I  paye?     Telleth  me,  I  pray." 

"I  wis,"  quoth  he,  "it  is  full  dear,  I  say. 
Sir,  at  a  word,  if  that  ye  lust  it  have, 
Ye  shul  pay  fourty  pound,  so  God  me  save  : 
And,  nere  the  friendship  that  ye  dede  ere  this 
Tome,  ye  shoulde  paye  more,  I  wis." 

This  priest  the  sum  of  fourty  pound  anon 
Of  nobles  fett,  and  took  hem  everychone 
To  this  chanoun,  for  this  ilke  receipt. 
All  his  working  nas  but  fraud  and  deceit. 

"Sir  priest,"  he  said,  "  I  keepe  have  no  los^ 

Of  my  craft,  for  I  would  it  kept  were  close  ; 

And,  as  ye  loveth  me,  keep  it  secre. 

For,  and  men  knewe  all  my  subtlety, 

Ey  God,  men  woulden  have  so  great  envy 

To  me,  because  of  my  philosophy, 

I  should  be  dead — there  were  none  other  way." 

"  God  it  forbede  ! "  quoth  the  priest  :  "  What  say  ? 
Yet  had  I  liever  spenden  all  the  good 
Which  that  I  have  (and  elles  wax  I  wood) 
Than  that  ye  shoulde  fall  in  such  mischief.- 

"  For  your  good  will,  sir,  have  ye  right  good  preef," 
Quoth  the  chanoun,  "and  farewell,  graunt-mcrcy." 

He  went  his  way  ;  and  never  the  priest  him  sey 
After  this  day.     And,  whan  that  this  priest  should 
Maken  assay,  at  such  time  as  he  would, 
Of  this  receipt— farewdl,  it  would  not  be. 

1  Praise. 


lo  CHA  UCER. 


Lo  !  thus  bejaped  and  beguilt  was  he  ! 
Thus  maketh  he  his  introduction 
To  bringe  folk  to  here  destruction. 

Considereth,  sirs,  how  that  in  each  astate 
Betwixe  men  and  gold  there  is  debate, 
So  ferforth  that  unnethe  there  is  none. 
This  multiplying  ^  blent  so  many  one 
That  in  good  faith  I  trowe  that  it  be 
The  cause  grettest  of  swicli  scarcity. 
Philosophers  speaken  so  mistily 
In  this  craft  that  men  connot  come  thereby. 
For  any  wit  that  men  han  now-on-days. 
They  may  well  chitteren,  as  doon  these  jays, 
And  in  here  termes  sette  lust  and  pain, 
But  to  here  purpose  shul  they  never  attain. 
A  man  may  lightly  learn,  if  he  have  aught, 
To  multiply,  and  bring  his  good  to  naught. 
Lo,  such  a  lucre  is  in  this  lusty  game  ! 
A  manne's  mirth  it  wol  turn  into  grame. 
And  empty  also  gi^eat  and  heavy  purses. 
And  make  folk  for  to  purchase  curses 
Of  hem  that  han  here  good  thereto  ylent. 
Oh  fie  for  shame  !     They  that  have  been  brent, 
Alas  !  can  they  not  flee  the  fire's  heat  ? 
Ye  that  it  usen,  I  rede  ye  it  lete, 
Lest  ye  lesen  all ;  for  bet  than  never  is  late, — 
Never  to  thrive  were  too  long  a  date. 
Though  ye  proll  ^  all,  ye  shul  it  never  find. 
Ye  been  as  bold  as  is  Bayard  the  blind,^ 
That  blundereth  forth,  and  peril  casteth  none  : 
He  is  as  bold  to  ren  again  a  stone 
As  for  to  go  besides  in  the  way  : — 
So  fare  ye  that  multiply,  I  say. 
If  that  your  eyen  can  nought  see  aright, 
Look  that  your  minde  lacke  nought  his  sight  : 
For,  though  ye  look  never  so  broad,  and  stare, 
Ye  shul  nought  win  a  mite  on  that  chaffare. 
But  wasten  all,  that  they  may  rape  and  ren. 
Withdraw  the  fire,  lest  it  too  faste  brenn  : 
Meddleth  no  more  with  that  art,  I  mean, — 
For,  gif  ye  doon,  your  thrift  is  gone  full  clean. 
And  right  as  swithe  I  wol  you  telle  here 
What  philosophers  sayn  in  this  mattere. 

Lo  thus  saith  Arnold  of  the  Newe  Toun,* 
As  his  Rosary  maketh  mention, — 

•I  Multiplying  of  precious  metals,  alchemy 

2  Prowl,  search  for. 

3  A  popular  old.proverb — "  Bayard  "  being  understood  as  the  name  of  a  horse. 
*  Arnold  de  Villeneuve,  author  of  the  Rosarius  Philosophorum. 


CHAUCER.  II 


He  saiLh  right  thus,  withouten  any  He  : 

"  There  may  no  man  Mercury  mortify, 

But  it  be  with  his  brother  knowleching. 

Lo  how  that  he  which  that  first  said  this  thing 

Of  philosophers  fader  was,  Hermes  : 

He  saith  how  that  the  dragoun  doubteless 

He  dieth  nought  but  if  that  he  be  slain 

With  his  brother  : — and  that  is  for  to  sayn, 

By  the  dragoun,  Mercury,  and  none  other. 

He  understood,  and  brimstone  be  his  brother, 

That  out  of  Sol  and  Luna  were  ydraw. 

And  therefore,  said  he,  '  Take'heed  to  my  saw  :  — 

Let  no  man  busy  him  this  art  to  seech 

But  if  that  he  the  intention  and  speech 

Of  ph'ilosophers  understonde  can  ; 

And,  if  he  do,  he  is  a  lewed  man  : 

For  this  science  and  this  cunning,'  quod  he, 

'Is  of  the  Secre  of  Secrets,^  pardie.'" 

Also  there  was  a  disciple  of  Plato 

That  on  a  time  saide  his  master  to, 

As  his  book  Senior  ^  will  bear  witness. 

And  this  was  his  demand  in  soothfastness  : 

"Tell  me  the  name  of  thilke  privy  stone." 

And  Plato  answered  unto  him  anon, 

"Take  the  stone  that  titanos  men  name." 

"  Which  is  that  ?"  quod  he.     "  Magnasia  is  the  same, 

Saide  Plato.      "Yea,  sir,  and  is  it  thus? 

This  is  iqnotiim  per  ignotius. 

What  is  magnasia,  good  sir,  I  you  pray?" 

"It  is  a  water  that  is  made,  I  say, 

Of  elementes  foure,"  quod  Plato. 

"  Tell  me  the  rote,^  good  sir,"  quod  he  tho, 

"  Of  that  water,  if  it  be  your  will." 

"Nay,  nay,"  quod  Plato,  "certain  that  I  nill. 

The  philosophers  sworn  were  eveiychone 

That  they  ne  should  discover  it  unto  none, 

Ne  in  no  book  it  write  in  no  mannere  ; 

For  unto  Christ  it  is  so  lief  and  dear 

That  he  will  not  that  it  discovered  be 

But  where  it  liketh  to  his  'deity 

Man  to  inspire,  and  eke  for  to  defend'* 

Whom  that  him  liketh  :— lo,  this  is  the  end." 

Than  thus  conclude  I :  sin'  that  God  of  heaven 
Ne  wol  not  that  the  philos6phei-s  neven'' 


1  An  allusion   to  a  treatise,    Sccrcta  Sccretoniin,  which   was   supposed   to 
embody  Aristotle's  instructions  to  Alexander.  . 

2  The  book  is  named  Senior-is  Zadith  fil.  HamncUs  Tahula  Ckymica.     i  tie 
story  in  this  work  (quoted  by  Chaucer)  i«  related  of  Solomon— not  Plato. 

3  Root,  source.  *  Prohibit.  &  Name,  notify 


12  CHAUCER. 


How  that  a  man  shall  come  unto  this  stone, 
I  rede  as  for  the  beste,  let  it  gone. 
For  whoso  maketli  God  his  adversary, 
As  for  to  work  anything  in  contrary 
Unto  his  will,  cert's  never  shall  he  thrive, 
Though  that  he  multiply  term  of  all  his  live. 

And  there  a  point,  for  ended  is  my  tale. 
God  send  everv  true  man  boot  of  his  bale  1 


THE  NUNNE  PRIEST'S  TALE. 

A  POORE  widow,  somedeal  stope^  in  age, 

Was  whilom  dwelling  in  a  poor  cottage, 

Beside  a  grove  standing  in  a  dale. 

This  widow  of  which  I  telle  you  my  tale, 

Sin'  thilke  day  that  she  was  last  a  wife, 

In  patience  ledde  a  full  simple  life, 

For  little  was  her  cattle  and  her  rent  ; 

For  husbandry^  of  such  as  God  her  sent. 

She  fond  herself,  and  eke  her  daughters  two. 

Three  large  sowes  had  she,  and  no  mo, 

Three  kine,  and  eke  a  sheep  that  highte  Mall. 

Full  sooty  was  her  liower,  and  eke  her  hall, 

In  which  she  eat  full  many  a  sclender  meal. 

Of  poinant  sauce  her  needed  never  a  deal : 

None  dainteth  morsel  passed  thorough  her  throat ; 

Her  diet  was  accordant  to  her  coat. 

Repletion  ne  made  her  never  sick : 

Attempre  diet  was  all  her  physic, 

And  exercise,  and  hearte's  suffisance. 

The  goute  let  her  nothing  for  to  dance, 

Ne  poplexie  shente  not  her  heed. 

No  wine  ne  drank  she,  nother  white  ne  reed ; 

Her  board  was  served  most  with  white  and  black. 

Milk  and  brown  bread,  in  M'hich  she  fond  no  lack, 

Saynd'^  bacon,  and  sometime  an  ey  or  twey; 

For  she  was,  as  it  were,  a  manner  deye.* 

A  yard  she  had,  enclosed  all  about 
With  stickes,  and  a  drye  ditch  without. 
In  which  slie  had  a  cock  hight  Chanticleer: 
In  all  the  lond,  of  crowing  was  none  his  peer. 
His  voice  was  merrier  than  the  merry  orgon. 
On  masse-days  that  in  the  churche  gone  : 
Well  sickerer  was  his  crowing  in  his  lodge 
Than  is  a  clock  or  an  abbey-orologe. 
By  nature  knew  he  each  ascension 

1  Stepped,  advanced.  ^  Husbanding,  economizing. 

3  Singed,  fried.  *  Hen-wife,  dairy-maid. 


CITA  UCER. 


Of  equinoxial  in  thilke  town  ; 

For  whan  degrees  fifteene  were  ascended 

Than  crewe  he,  it  might  not  hen  amended. 

His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fine  coral, 

And  battled  as  it  were  a  castle-wall. 

His  bill  was  black,  and  like  the  jeet  it  shone ; 

Like  azure  were  his  legges  and  his  toen; 

His  nailes  whiter  than  the  lily-flour; 

And  like  the  burnished  gold  was  his  colour. 

This  gentil  cock  had  in  his  governance 
Seven  hennes,  for  to  do  all  his  pleasaunce. 
Which  were  his  susters  and  his  paramours, 
And  wonder  like  to  him  as  of  colours; 
Of  which  the  fairest-hiied  on  her  throat 
Was  cleped  fair  damysel  Pertilote. 
Curteis  she  was,  discreet,  and  debonnaire. 
And  companable,  and  bare  herself  full  fair, 
Sin'  thilke  day  that  she  was  seven  night  old, — 
That  she  hath  triiely  the  heart  in  hold 
Of  Chanticleer  locken  in  every  lith  ■} 
He  loved  her  so  that  well  him  was  therewith. 
But  such  a  joy  was  it  to  hear  him  sing. 
Whan  that  the  brighte  sunne  gan  to  spring, 
In  sweet  accord,  "  My  lief  is  faren  on  lond." 

Fro  thilke  time,  as  I  have  understond, 
Beastes  and  briddes  coulde  speake  and  sing. 
And  so  befell  that  in  a  dawening, 
As  Chanticleer  among  his  wives  all 
Sat  on  his  perche  that  was  in  his  hall, 
And  next  him  sat  this  faire  Pertilote, 
This  Chanticleer  gan  groanen  in  his  throat. 
As  man  that  in  his  dream  is  drecched  sore. 

And,  whan  that  Pertilote  thus  heard  him  roar. 
She  was  aghast,  and  saide:    "  Hearte  dear. 
What  aileth  you  to  groan  in  this  mannere  ? 
Ye  ben  a  very  sleeper !     Fie  for  shame  !" 

And  he  answered  and  saide  thus  :  "Madame, 
I  pray  you  that  ye  take  it  nought  agrief : 
By  God,  mc  mett"  I  was  in  such  mischief 
Right  now  that  yit  mine  heart  is  sore  afright. 
Now  God,"  quod  he,  "my  sweven'*  rcdc  aright. 
And  keep  my  body  out  of  foul  prisoun  ! 
Me  mctt  how  tliat  I  roamed  up  and  doun 
Within  our  yard,  whereas  I  saw  a  beast 
Was  like  an  hound,  and  would  have  made  arrest 
Upon  my  body,  and  would  have  had  me  deed. 
His  colour  was  belwix  yellow  and  reed; 

1  Limb.  2  I  dreamed.  8  Dream. 


14  CHAUCER. 


And  tipped  was  his  tail  and  both  his  ears 
With  black,  unUlie  the  remnant  of  his  heres. 
His  snout  was  small,  with  glowing  eyen  twey,— 
Yet  of  his  look  for  fear  almost  I  dey : 
This  caused  me  my  groaning  doubteless." 

*' Away !"  quod  she,  "fie  on  you,  heart eless ! 

Alas!"  quod  she,  "for  by  that  God  above 

Now  have  ye  lost  my  heart  and  all  my  love ! 

I  can  nought  love  a  coward,  by  my  faith ! 

For,certes,  whatso  any  woman  saith, 

We  all  desiren,  if  it  mighte  be;, 

To  have  husbondes  hardy,  rich,  and  free, 

And  secre,  and  no  niggard  ne  no  fool, 

Ne  him  that  is  aghast  of  every  tool, 

Ne  none  avaunter,^  by  that  God  above  ! 

How  durst  ye  say,  for  shame,  unto  your  love. 

That  anything  might  make  you  afeard? 

Have  ye  no  manne's  heart,  and  han  a  beard? 

Alas !  and  can  ye  been  aghast  of  swevenes? 

Nought,  God  wot,  but  vanity  in  sweven  is. 

Swevens  engendred  ben  of  repleccions, 

And  often  of  fume  and  of  complexions, 

Whan  humours  ben  too  abundant  in  a  wight. 

Certes  this  dream  which  ye  hao  mett  to-night 

Cometh  of  the  greate  superfluity 

Of  youre  reede  cholera,  pardie, 

Which  causeth  folk  to  dreamen  in  here  dreams 

Of  arvvps,  and  of  fire  with  reede  beams. 

Of  reede  beastes  that  they  will  him  bite. 

Of  contek,^  and  of  whelpes  greet  and  lite  ? 

Right  as  the  humour  of  malencoly 

Causeth  in  sleep  full  many  a  man  to  cry, 

For  fear  of  beares  or  of  bulles  blake, 

Or  elles  blake  devils  wol  hem  take. 

Of  other  humours  couth  I  tell  also 

That  worken  many  a  man  in  sleep  full  woe : 

But  I  wol  pass  as  lightly  as  I  can. 

Lo !  Catoun,  which  that  was  so  wise  a  man, 

Said  he  not  thus  '  Ne  do  no  force  of  dreams'—? 

Now,  sir,"  quod  she,  "whan  we  flee  fro  these  beams. 

For  Goddes  love  as  take  some  laxatif. 

Up  peril  of  my  soul  and  of  my  life, 

I  counsel  you  the  best,  I  wol  not  lie, 

That  both  of  choler  and  of  malencoly 

Ye  purge  you  ;  and  for  ye  shul  nought  tarry, 

Though  in  this  town  is  none  apotecary, 

I  shall  myself  two  herbes  teachen  yow 

That  shall  be  for  your  hele  and  for  your  prow:* 


Braggart,  2  Contention.  3  Great  and  little.  «  Benefit. 


CHAUCER.  15 


And  in  our  yard  tho  herbes  shall  I  find, 

The  which  han  of  here  property,  by  kind, 

To  purgen  you  beneath  and  eke  above. 

Forget  not  this,  for  Goddes  owne  love  ! 

Ye  ben  full  choleric  of  complexion  : 

Ware  the  sun,  in  his  ascension, 

Ne  find  you  not  replete  in  humours  hot : 

And  if  it  do,  I  dare  well  lay  a  groat 

That  ye  shul  have  a  fever  tertian, 

Or  an  ague  that  may  be  youre  bane. 

A  day  or  two  ye  shul  have  digestives 

O£wormes,  or  ye  take  your  laxatives 

Of  lauriol,  centuiy,  and  fumitere, 

Or  else  of  elderberry  that  groweth  there, 

Of  catapus,^  or  of  gaytre^  berries, 

Of  erb  ivy  that  groweth  in  our  yard,  that  merry  is  : 

Pick  hem  up  right  as  they  grow,  and  eat  hem  in. 

Be  merry,  husband,  foi"  your  fader  kin : 

Dreadeth  none  dreames.     I  can  say  no  more." 

"Madam,"  quod  he,  "  graunt-mercy  of  your  lore. 

But  natheless,  as  touching  Daun  Catoun, 

That  hath  of  wisdom  such  a  great  renoun, 

Though  that  he  bad  no  dreames  for  to  drede, 

By  God !  men  may  in  olde  bookes  read 

Of  many  a  man,  more  of  auctority 

Than  ever  Catoun  was — so  mot  I  the^ — 

That  all  the  reverse  sayn  of  his  sentence ; 

And  han  well  founden  by  experience 

That  dreames  ben  significations 

As  well  of  joy  as  of  tribulations 

That  folk  enduren  in  this  life  present. 

There  needeth  make  of  this  none  argument : 

The  very  preve  showeth  it  in  deed. 

One  of  the  grettest  auctors  that  men  read* 

Saith  thus  :  That  whilom  tway  felarwes  went 

On  pilgrimage  in  a  full  good  intent ; 

And  happed  so  they  came  vmto  a  toun 

"Whereas  there  was  such  congregation 

Of  people,  and  eke  so  strait  of  herbergage,^ 

That  they  fond  nought  as  much  as  one  cottage 

In  which  that  they  might  both  ylodged  be. 

Whecefore  they  musten  of  necessity. 

As  for  that  night,  depart  here  compaigny: 

And  each  of  hem  goth  to  his  hostelry, 

And  took  his  lodging  as  it  wouldc  fall. 

That  one  of  hem  was  lodged  in  a  stall, 

Fer  in  a  yard,  with  oxen  of  the  plough  : 

That  other  man  was  lodged  well  enow, 

1  A  species  of  spurge.        -  Dogwood.        ^  Thrive.        *  Cicero.        6  Lodging. 


16  CHAUCER. 


As  was  his  adventure  or  his  fortune 

That  us  governetli  alle  in  comune. 

And  so  befell  that,  long  ere  it  were  day. 

This  one  mett  in  his  bed,  thereas  he  lay, 

How  that  his  felaw  gan  upon  him  call, 

And  said :    '  Alas  !  for  in  an  oxe-stall 

This  night  I  shall  be  murd'red  there  I  lie. 

Now  help  me,  deare  brother,  or  I  die! 

In  alle  haste  come  to  me  !'  he  said. 

This  man  out  of  his  sleep  for  fear  abrayd  '} 

But,  whan  that  he  was  waked  out  of  his  sleep, 

He  turned  him,  and  took  of  this  no  keep : 

Him  thought  his  dream  nas  but  a  vanity. 

Thus  twies  in  his  sleepe  dreamed  he. 

And  at  the  thridde  time  yet  his  felaw 

Com,  as  him  thought,  and  said  :  '  I  am  now  slaw ; 

Behold  my  bloody  woundes,  deep  and  wide. 

Arise  up  early  in  the  morwe-tide  ; 

And  at  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,'  quod  he, 

'A  cart  of  dunge  there  shalt  thou  see, 

In  which  my  body  is  hid  privily. 

Do  thilke  cart  arresten  boldely. 

My  gold  caused  my  m-rrdre,  sooth  to  sayn :' — 

And  told  him  every  point  how  he  was  slain, 

With  a  full  pitous  face,  pale  of  hue. 

And  traste  well,  his  dream  he  fond  full  true  : — 

For  on  the  morwe,  as  soon  as  it  was  day, 

To  his  felawe's  inn  he  took  the  way ; 

And,  whan  that  he  came  to  this  oxe-stall, 

After  his  felaw  he  began  to  call. 

The  hosteller  answered  him  anon. 

And  saide  :   *  Sir,  your  felaw  is  agone : 

Als  soon  as  day,  he  went  out  of  the  toun.' 

This  man  gan  fall  in  a  suspeccion. 

Remembering  on  his  dreames  that  he  mett : 

And  forth  he  goth,  no  longer  would  he  let. 

Unto  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,  and  fond 

A  dung-cart  went,  as  it  were  to  dung  lond,' 

That  was  arrayed  in  the  same  wise 

As  ye  han  heard  the  deede  man  devise. 

And  with  an  hardy  heart  he  gan  to  cry 

Vengeance  and  justice  of  this  felony. 

'  My  felaw  murd'red  is  this  same  night, 

And  in  this  carte  he  lith  here  upright. 

I  cry  out  on  the  minsters,'  quod  he, 

*  That  shoulde  keep  and  rule  this  citie! 

Haro  !  alas  !  here  lith  my  felaw  slain  !' — 

What  should  I  more  unto  this  tale  sayn? 


1  Started  up  awake. 


CHAUCER.  17 


The  people  upstart,  and  cast  the  cart  to  ground, 
And  in  the  middes  of  the  dung  they  found 
The  deade  man  that  murd'red  was  all  new. 
O  blissful  God,  Thou  art  full  just  and  trae ! 
Lo  how  Thou  bewrayest  murder  all-day ! 
Murder  will  out — certes  it  is  no  nay. 
Murder  is  so  vlatsome^  and  abominable 
■  To  God,  that  is  so  just  and  reasonable,^ 
That  he  ne  would  not  suffre  it  hiled^  be. 
Though  it  abide  a  year,  or  two  or  three, 
Murder  will  out — this  is  my  conclusioun. 
And  right  anon  the  ministers  of  that  toun 
Han  hent  the  carter ;  and  so  sore  him  pined, 
And  eke  the  hosteller  so  sore  engined,'* 
That  they  beknew^  here  wickedness  anon, 
And  were  anhonged  by  the  necke-bone. — 
Here  may  men  see  that  dreames  ben  to  dread : 
And  certes  in  the  same  book  I  read. 
Right  in  the  next  chapitre  after  this 
(I  gabbe  nought,  so  have  I  joy  or  bliss), 
Two  men  that  would  have  passed  over  sea 
For  certain  causes  into  fer  countrie. 
If  that  the  wind  ne  hadde  been  contrary, 
That  made  hem  in  a  city  for  to  tarry, ' 
That  stood  full  merry  upon  an  haven-side. 
But  on  a  day,  again  the  eventide, 
The  wind  gan  change,  and  blew  right  as  hem  lest. 
Jolyf  and  glad  they  wenten  unto  rest. 
And  casten  hem  full  early  for  to  sail. 
But  to  that  one  man  fell  a  great  mervail. 
That  one  of  hem,  in  his  sleeping  as  he  lay. 
Him  mett  a  wonder  dream  again  the  day-. 
Him  thought  a  man  stood  by  liis  bedde's  side, 
And  him  commanded  that  he  should  abide. 
And  said  him  thus :  '  If  thou  tomorwe  wend, 
Thou  shalt  be  dreynt  :^  my  tale  is  at  an  end.' 
He  woke,  and  told  his  felaw  what  he  mett. 
And  prayde  him  his  viage  to  let : 
As  for  that  day  he  prayed  him  for  to  abide. 
His  felaw,  that  lay  by  his  bedde's  side, 
Gan  for  to  laugh,  and  scorned  him  full  fast. 
'  No  dream,'  quod  he,  '  may  so  mine  hearte  ghast 
That  I  will  lette  for  to  do  my  things. 
I  sette  not  a  straw  by  thy  dreamings. 
For  swevens  ben  but  vanities  and  japes. 
Men  dream  all  day  of  owlcs  and  of  apes, 
And  eke  of  many  a  maze^  therewithall : 

1  Loathsome.  2  Equitable.  3  Hidden,  ■*  Racked,  tortured. 

5  Confessed.  6  Drenched,  drowned.  ^  Wild  fancy. 

B 


i8  CHAUCER. 


Men  dream  of  thinges  that  never  be  shall. 

But,  sith  I  see  that  thou  wilt  here  abide, 

And  thus  forslouthe^  wilfully  thy  tide, 

God  wot  it  rueth  me — and  have  good  day.' 

And  thus  he  took  his  leave,  and  went  his  way. 

But,  ere  he  hadde  half  his  course  ysailed — 

Noot  I  nought  why,  ne  what  mischance  it  ailed — 

But  casually  the  shippe's  bottom  rent ; 

And  ship  and  man  under  the  water  went 

In  sight  of  other  shippes  there-beside 

That  with  him  sailed  at  the  same  tide. — 

And  therefore,  faire  Pertilote  so  dear. 

By  such  ensamples  olde  maistou  lear 

That  no  man  shoulde  be  too  recheless 

Of  dreames  :  for  I  say  thee  doubteless 

That  many  a  dream  full  sore  is  for  to  dread. 

Lo  !  in  the  Life  of  Saint  Kenelm  I  read 

(That  was  Kenulphus'  son,  the  noble  King 

Of  Merkenrick")  how  Kenelm  mett  a  thing. 

A  little  or  he  was  murd'red,  upon  a  day, 

His  murdre  in  his  avis'ion  he  sey. 

His  norice  him  expouned  every  del 

His  sweven,  and  bad  him  for  to  keep  him  well 

For  traison :  but  he  nas  but  seven  year  old, 

And  therefore  little  tale  hath  he  told* 

Of  any  dream,  so  holy  was  his  hert. 

By  God,  I  hadde  liever  than  my  shirt 

That  ye  had  rad  his  legend,  as  have  I. — 

Dame  Pertilote,  I  say  you  truely, 

Macrobius,  that  writ  the  avision 

In  Afric  of  the  worthy  Scipion, 

Affirmeth  dreames,  and  saith  that  they  been 

Warning  of  thinges  that  men  after  seen. 

And  furthermore  I  pray  you  looketh  well 

In  the  Old  Testament,  of  Daniel, 

If  he  huld  dreames  any  vanity. 

Read  eke  of  Joseph,  and  there  shall  ye  see 

Whether  dreams  ben  sometime  (I  say  nought  all) 

Warning  of  thinges  that  shul  after  fall. 

Look  of  Egypt  the  King,  Daun  Pharao, 

His  baker  and  his  botteler  also. 

Whether  they  felte  none  effect  in  dreams. 

Whoso  wol  seek  aetes  of  sundry  ranies'* 

May  read  of  dreames  many  a  wonder  thing. 

Lo  Croesus  which  that  was  of  Lydes  King, 

Mett  he  not  that  he  sat  upon  a  tree, 

1  Neglect,  miss. 

2'  Mercia.     Kenelm,  succeeding  to  the  throne  in  childhood,  was  murdered  by 
order  of  his  aunt,  Quenedreda. 
3  Littje  account  did  he  take.  4  Realms. 


CHA  UCER.  19 


Which  signified  he  should  hanged  be? 

Lo  her  Andromachia,  Ector's  wife, 

That  day  that  Ector  shoulde  lese  his  life. 

She  dreamed  on  the  same  night  beforn 

How  that  the  life  of  Ector  should  be  lorn 

If  thilkb  day  he  v/ente  to  battail. 

She  warned  him,  but  it  might  nought  avail ; 

He  wente  forth  to  fighte  natheless, 

And  he  was  slain  anon  of  Achilles. 

But  thilke  tale  is  all  too  long  to  tell ; — 

And  eke  it  is  nigh  day — I  may  not  dwell. 

Shortly  I  say,  as  for  conclusion, 

That  I  shall  have,  of  this  avision, 

Adversity  ;  and  I  say  furthermore 

That  I  ne  tell  of  laxatifs  no  store, 

For  they  ben  venomous,  I  wot  it  well  : 

I  hem  defy — I  love  hem  never  a  del. — 

Now  let  us  speak  of  mirth,  and  let  all  this, 

Madame  Pertilote,  so  have  I  bliss. 

Of  o  thing  God  hath  me  sent  large  grace : 

For,  whan  I  see  the  beauty  of  your  face, 

Ye  been  so  scarlet-hue  about  your  eyen 

It  maketh  all  my  dreade  for  to  dien ; ' 

For,  all  so  sicker  as  in  prhicipio, 

Mulier  est  hominis  coufusio : 

Madam,  the  sentence  of  this  Latin  is. 

Woman  is  manne's  joy  and  manne's  bliss. 

For,  whan  I  feel  anight  your  softe  side 

(Albeit  that  I  may  not  on  you  ride, 

For  that  your  perch  is  made  so  narrow,  alas  !) 

I  am  so  full  of  joy  and  of  solas 

That  I  defye  both  sweven  and  dream." 

And  with  that  word  he  fley  doun  fro  the  beam 
(For  it  was  day),  and  eke  his  hennes  all  ; 
And  with  a  chuck  he  gan  hem  for  to  call, 
For  he  had  found  a  corn  lay  in  the  yerd. 
Real  he  was,  he  was  no  more  afeard. 
He  feathered  Pertilote  twenty  time, 
And  trad  as  ofte,  ere  that  it  was  prime. 
He  looketh  as  it  were  a  grim  lioun  ; 
And  on  his  toen  he  roameth  up  and  doun, — 
Him  deigned  not  to  set  his  foot  to  ground. 
He  chuckcth  whan  he  hath  a  corn  yfound, 
And  to  him  rennen  than  his  wives  all. 

Thus,  real  as  a  prince  is  in  his  hall, 
Leave  I  this  Chanticleer  in  his  pasture  : 
And  after  wol  I  tell  his  aventure. 

Whan  that  the  month  in  which  the  world  began, 


20  CHAUCER. 


That  highte  March,  whan  God  maked  first  man, 

Was  complete,  and  ypassed  were  also, 

Sin'  March  began,  tway  months  and  dayes  two. 

Befell  that  Chanticleer  in  all  his  pride, 

His  seven  wives  walking  by  his  side. 

Cast  up  his  eyen  to  the  brighte  sun, 

That  in  the  sign  of  Taurus  had  yiun 

Twenty  degi-ees  and  one,  and  somewhat  more  % 

He  knew  by  kind,  and  by  none  other  lore, 

That  it  was  prime,  and  crew  with  blissful  steven.^ 

"The  sun,"  he  said,  "is  clomben  up  on  heaven 
Twenty  degixes  and  one,  and  more,  I  wis. 
Madame  Pertilote,  my  worlde's  bliss, 
Hearkeneth  these  blissful  briddes  how  they  sing. 
And  seeth  these  freshe  floures  how  they  spring  : 
Full  is  mine  heart  of  revel  and  solace." 

•  But  suddenly  him  fell  a  sorrowful  case. 
For  ever  the  latter  end  of  joy  is  woe. 
God  wot  that  worldly  joy  is  soon  ago : 
And,  if  a  rhethor  ^  couthe  fair  indite. 
He  in  a  chronique  saufiy  might  it  write 
As  for  a  sovereign  notability. 

Now  every  wise  man  let  him  hearkne  me. 
This  story  is  all  so  true,  I  undertake, 
As  is  the  book  of  Lancelot  the  Lake, 
That  woman  huld  in  full  gret  reverence. 
Now  wol  I  turn  again  to  my  sentence. 

A  cole-fox,^  full  sly  of  iniquity, 

That  in  the  grove  had  wonned  yeares  three. 

By  high  imagination  forncast. 

The  same  nighte  thurgh  the  hedge  brast 

Into  the  yard  there  Chanticleer  the  fair 

Was  wont,  and  eke  his  wives,  to  repair  : 

And  in  a  bed  of  wortes  ■*  still  he  lay 

Till  it  was  passed  undem  of  the  day. 

Waiting  his  time  on  Chanticleer  to  fall ; 

As  gladly  doon  these  homicides  all 

That  in  awaite  lien  to  murder  men. 

O  false  murd'rer  lurking  in  thy  den ! 

O  newe  Scariot,  newe  Genilon ! 

False  dissimulor,  O  Greek  Sinon 

That  broughtest  Troy  all  utterly  to  sorrow  ! 

O  Chanticleer,  accursed  be  the  morrow 

1  Voice.  2  Rhetorician. 

3  The  word  "cole,"  used  as  a  compound  with  other  words,  is  a  term  of 
opprobrium. 
'  Cabbages. 


CHAUCER.  21 


That  thou  into  the  yard  flew  fro  the  beams  ! 

rhou  were  full  well  warned  by  thy  dreams 

That  thilke  day  was  perilous  to  thee  ! 

But  what  that  God  forewot  must  needes  be, 

After  the  opinion  of  certain  clerkes. 

Witness  on  him  that  any  parfit  clerk  is 

That  in  school  is  gret  altercation 

In  this  matteer,  and  gret  disputeson, 

And  hath  been  of  an  hundred-thousand  men. 

But  yet  I  cannot  bult  it  to  the  bren/ 

As  can  the  holy  doctor  Aiigustin, 

Or  Boece,  or  the  bishop  Bradwardin, 

Whether  that  Goddes  worthy  foreweeting 

Straineth  me  needly  for  to  do  a  thing 

("  Needly"  clepe  I  simple  necessity) ; 

Or  elles  if  free  choice  be  granted  me 

To  do  that  same  thing  or  to  do  it  nought, 

Though  God  forewot  it  ere  that  it  was  wrought, 

Or,  of  his  witting,  straineth  never  a  deal 

But  by  necessity  conditioneL 

I  wol  not  have  to  do  of  such  matteer. 

My  tale  is  of  a  cock,  as  ye  shall  hear, 

That  took  his  counsel  of  his  wife  with  sorrow 

To  walken  in  the  yard  upon  the  morrow 

That  he  had  mett  the  dreame  that  I  told. 

Women's  counseiles  been  full  ofte  cold  : 

Womane's  counseil  brought  us  first  to  woe, 

And  made  Adam,  fro  paradise  to  go, 

Thereas  he  was  full  merry  and  well  at  ease. 

But,  for  I  not  to  whom  it  might  displease 

If  I  counseil  of  woman  woulde  blame. 

Pass  over,  for  I  said  it  in  my  game. 

Read  auctours  where  they  treat  of  such  matteer. 

And  what  they  sayn  of  women  ye  may  hear. 

These  been  the  cocke's  wordes,  and  not  mine : 

I  can  none  harrae  of  woman  divine. 

Fair  in  the  sond,^  to  bathe  her  meiTily, 

Li'th  Pertilote,  and  all  her  susters  by. 

Again  the  sun :  and  Chanticleer  so  free 

Sang  merrier  than  the  meermaid  in  the  sea — 

For  Physiologus^  saith  sickerly 

How  that  they  singen  well  and  merrily. 

And  so  Befell  that,  as  he  cast  his  eye 

Among  the  wortes  on  a  butterfly. 

He  was  ware  of  this  fox  that  lay  full  low. 

Nothing  ne  list  him  thanne  for  to  crow  ; 


1  Bolt  (sift)  it  to  the  bran.  ''■_  Sand. 

3  A  popular  metrical  Latin  treatise  on  the  nature  of  animals. 


22  CHAUCER.. 


But  cried  anon  "Cok  cok,"  and  up  he  stert, 

As  man  that  was  affrayed  in  his  hert. 

For  naturally  a  beast  desireth  flee 

Fro  his  contrary,  if  he  may  it  see, 

Though  he  never  ere  had  seyn  it  with  his  eye. 

This  Chanticleer,  whan  he  gan  it  aspie, 

He  would  han  fled  ;  but  that  the  fox  anon 

Said  :   "  Gentil  sir,  alas  !  why  wol  ye  go'n  ? 

Be  ye  afraid  of  me  that  am  your  friend  ? 

Certes  I  were  worse  than  any  fiend 

If  I  to  you  would  harm  or  villany. 

I  am  nought  come  your  counsel  to  espie. 

But  truely  the  cause  of  my  coming 

Was  only  for  to  hearken  how  ye  sing  : 

For  truely  ye  have  als  merry  a  steven 

As  any  angel  hath  that  is  in  heaven  ; 

Therewith  ye  han  of  music  more  feeling 

Than  had  Boece,  or  any  that  can  sing. 

My  lord  your  fader  (God  his  soule  bless  I) 

And  youre  moder,  of  her  gentiless, 

Han  in  mine  house  been,  to  my  gret  ease  : 

And  certes,  sir,  full  fain  would  I  you  please. 

But  for  men  speak  of  singing,  I  wol  say — 

So'mot  I  brooke^  well  mine  eyen  twey. 

Save  ye  I  hearde  never  man  so  sing 

As  dede  your  fader  in  the  morwening. 

Certes  it  was  of  heart  all  that  he  song. 

And,  for  to  make  his  voice  the  more  strong, 

He  would  so  painen  him  that  with  both  his  eyen 

He  muste  wink — so  loud  he  woulde  cryen ; 

And  stonden  on  his  tiptoen  therewithal. 

And  stretche  forth  his  necke  long  and  snaalL 

And  eke  he  was  of  such  discretion 

That  there  was  no  man  in  no  region 

That  him  in  song  or  wisdom  mighte  pass. 

I  have  well  rad  in  Daun  Burnel  -  the  ass. 

Among  his  verses,  how  there  was  a  cock 

That,  for  a  prieste's  son  gave  him  a  knock 

Upon  his  leg  while  he  was  young  and  nice. 

He  made  him  for  to  lese  his  benefice. 

But  certain  there  is  no  comparison 

Betwix  the  wisdom  and  discretion 

Of  youre  fader  and  of  his  subtlety. 

Now  singeth,  sir,  for  Sainte  Charity  ! 

Let  see  can  ye  your  fader  counterfeit." 

This  Chanticleer  his  winges  gan  to  beat, 

1  Use. 

2  The  satirical  poem,  Bttmelius,  written  by  Nigellus  W'irtker. 


CHA  UCER.  23 


As  man  that  couth  his  treason  nought  espie, 
So  was  he  ravished  with  his  flattery. 
Alas  !  ye  lordUngs,  many  a  false  flattour 
Is  in  your  house,  and  many  a  losengour,^ 
That  pleasen  you  well  more,  by  my  faith, 
Than  he  that  soothfastness  unto  you  saith. 
Readeth  Ecclesiast  of  flattery  : 
Beware,  ye  lordes,  of  here  treacheiy. 

This  Chanticleer  stood  high  upon  his  toes. 
Stretching  his  neck  ;  and  held  his  eyen  close. 
And  gan  to  crowe  loude  for  the  nonce  : 
And  Daun  Russel  the  fox  stert  up  at  once. 
And  by  the  garget  hente  Chanticleer, 
And  on  his  back  toward  the  wood  him  bare-^ 
For  yit  was  there  no  man  that  had  him  sued. 
O  destiny,  that  mayst  not  ben  eschewed  ! 
Alas  that  Chanticleer  fley  fro  the  beams  ! 
Alas  his  wife  ne  roughte  nought  of  dreams  ! 
And  on  a  Friday  fell  all  this  mischance. 
O  Venus,  that  art  goddess  of  pleasance,  ' 

Sin'  that  thy  servant  was  this  Chanticleer, 
And  in  thy  service  did  all  his  powere, 
More  for  delight  than  th'  world  to  multiply, 
Why  wouldst  thou  suffer  him  on  thy  day  to  die  ? 
O  Gaufred,^  deare  maister  soveraign, 
That,  whan  the  worthy  King  Richard  was  slain 
With  shot,  complainedest  his  death  so  sore, 
Why  n'had  I  nought  thy  sentence  and  thy  lore 
The  Friday  for  to  chiden  as  dede  ye — • 
For  on  a  Friday  soothly  slain  was  he  ? 
Than  would  I  showe  how  that  I  couth  plain 
For  Chanticleere's  dread  and  for  his  pain. 

Certes  such  cry  ne  lamentation 

Was  never  of  ladies  made  whan  Ilion 

Was  won,  and  Pyrrhus  with  his  streite^  swerd, 

Whan  he  had  hent  King  Priam  by  the  berd. 

And  slaw  him  (as  saith  us  Eneidos), 

As  maden  all  the  hennes  in  the  close 

Whan  they  had  seyn  of  Chanticleer  the  sight. 

But  sovereignly  dame  Pertilote  shright 

Full  louder  than  did  Hasdrubaldc's  wife, 

Whan  that  her  housiibond  had  lost  his  life. 

And  that  the  Romans  had  ybrent  Cartage : 

1  Sycophant. 

2  GeoftVey  de  Vinsauf,  author  of  a  treatise  named  Nova  Poetria.  In  this 
work  he  gives,  as  a  specimen  of  the  plaintive  style,  some  Unes  on  the  death  of 
Richard  I.,  referring  to  the  dies  Veneris,  or  Friday,  on  which  that  event  oc- 
curred. 

'^  Stretched,  drawn. 


24  CHAUCER. 


She  was  so  full  of  torment  and  of  rage 
That  wilfully  unto  the  lire  she  stert, 
And  brenned  herselven  with  a  stedfast  hert. 
O  woful  hennes  !  right-so  criede  ye 
As,  whan  that  Nero  brente  the  citee 
Of  Rome,  crieden  the  senatoures'  wives, 
For  that  here  housbonds  losten  all  here  lives  : 
Withouten  gult,  this  Nero  had  hem  slayn. 

Now  wol  I  turn  to  my  matteer  again. 

The  silly  widow  and  her  daughters  two 

Hearden  these  hennes  cry  and  maken  woe  ; 

And  out  at  doores  starten  they  anon, 

And  seyen  the  fox  toward  the  \vood  is  gone, 

And  bare  upon  his  back  the  cock  away. 

They  crieden  :  "  Out,  haro,  and  wellaway  ! 

Ha  ha  !     The  fox  !  "—And  after  him  they  ran, 

And  eke  with  staves  many  another  man. 

Ran  Coll  our  dog,  and  Talbot,  and  Garlond, 

And  Malkin  with  a  distaff  in  her  hond  : 

Ran  cow  and  calf,  and  eke  the  very  hogs  ; — 

So  were  they  feared  for  barking  of  the  dogs, 

And  shouting  of  the  men  and  women  eke. 

They  ronne  that  they  thought  here  hearte  breke. 

They  yelleden  as  fiendes  doon  in  hell : 

The  duckes  crieden  as  men  would  hem  quell.-^ 

The  geese  for  feare  flow'n  over  the  trees  : 

Out  of  the  hive  came  the  swarm  of  bees. 

So  hidous  was  the  noise — ah  benedicite  ! — 

Certes  he  Jacke  Straw,  and  his  meyne, 

Ne  maden  shoutes  never  half  so  shrill 

Whan  that  they  woulden  any  Fleming  kill 

As  thilke  day  was  made  upon  the  fox. 

Of  brass  they  broughten  homes,  and  of  box, 

Of  horn  and  bone,  in  which  they  blew  and  pouped,^ 

And  therewithal  they  shrieked  and  they  whooped  : 

It  seemed  as  that  heaven  shoulde  fall. 

Now,  goode  men,  I  pray  you  hearkeneth  all : 
Lo  how  fortune  turneth  suddenly 
The  hope  and  pride  eke  of  her  enemy. 
This  cock  that  lay  upon  this  fox's  back, 
In  all  his  dread  unto  the  fox  he  spak, 
And  saide  :  "  Sir,  if  that  I  were  as  ye, 
Yet  should  I  sayn,  as  wise  God  helpe  me — 
'  Turneth  again,  ye  proude  churles  all  ! 
A  very  pestilence  upon  you  fall ! 
Now  am  I  come  unto  this  woode's  side, 


1  Kill.  2  Sounded. 


CHAUCER. 


25 


Maugre  your  head  the  cock  shall  here  abide  : 
I  wol  him  eat  in  faith,  and  that  anon.'  " 

The  fox  answered  :   "  In  faith,  it  shall  be  done  !" 

And,  while  he  spake  that  word,  all  suddenly, 
This  cock  brake  from  his  mouth  deliverly, 
And  high  upon  a  tree  he  fley  anon. 

And,  whan  the  fox  sey  that  he  was  ygone, 
"Alas  !"  quod  he,  "  O  Chanticleer,  alas  ! 
I  have  to  you,"  quod  he,  "ydone  trespass, 
Inasmuch  as  I  maked  you  afeard, 
Whan  I  you  hent,  and  brought  out  of  the  yerd. 
But,  sir,  I  dede  it  in  no  wicked  intent : 
Come  doun,  and  I  shall  tell  you  what  I  meant. 
I  shall  say  sooth  to  you,  God  help  me  so  ! " 

"Nay  than,"  quod  he,  "  I  shrew  us  bothe  two, 
And  first  I  shrew  myself,  both  blood  and  bones, 
If  thou  beguile  me  any  ofter  than  once. 
Thou  shalt  no  more  thorough  thy  flattery 
Do  me  to  sing  and  winke  with  mine  eye  : 
For  he  that  winketh  whan  he  shoulde  see. 
All  wilfully,  God  let  him  never  the   " 

"Nay,"  quod  the  fox,  " but  God  give  him  mischance 

That  is  so  undiscreet  of  governance 

That  jangleth  whan  he  shoulde  hold  his  peace  !" 

Lo  such  it  is  for  to  be  recheless 
And  negligent,  and  trust  on  flattery. 
But  ye  that  holde  this  tale  a  follie — 
As  of  a  fox,  or  of  a  cock  or  hen, — 
Tak'th  the  morality  thereof,  good  men  : 
For  Saint  Poul  saith  that  all  that  written  is, 
To  our  doctrine  it  is  ywrit,  I  wis. 
Taketh  the  fruit,  and  let  the  chaff  be  still. 

Now  goode  God,  if  that  it  be  thy  will 

(As  saith  my  lord),  so  make  ns  all  good  men, — 

And  bring  us  alle  to  his  bliss.  Amen ! 


ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 


ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

[Nothing  seem?;  to  be  known  about  this  writer,  except  that  his  poem  must 
bear  date  somewhere  towards  1462.  It  was  discovered  by  that  indefatigable 
student  of  our  early  literature  Mr.  F.  J.  Furnivall,  in  a  MS.  in  the  Library  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ;  and  was  by  him  published  in  1S65  for  the  Early 
EngUsh  Text  Society]. 

THE  WRIGHT'S  CHASTE  WIFE. 
Almighty  God,  Maker  of  all, 
Save  you,  my  sovereign,?,  in  tower  and  hall, 

And  send  you  good  grace  ! 
If  ye  will  a  stounde  blyn. 
Of  a  story  I  will  begin, 

And  tell  you  all  the  case, 
INIany  farleyes  ^  that  I  have  heard ; 
Ye  would  have  wonder  how  it  fared  : 

Listen,  and  ye  shall  hear : 
Of  a  Wright  I  will  you  tell 
That  sometime  in  this  land  gan  dwell, 

And  lived  by  his  mystere. 

Whether  that  he  were  in  or  out. 
Of  earthly  man  had  he  no  doubt 

To  work  house,  harrow,  nor  plough, 
-    Or  other  works,  whatso  they  were  : 
Thus  ^^Tought  he  hem  far  and  near, 

And  did  them  Avell  enow. 
This  Wright  would  wed  no  wife. 
But  in  youth  to  lead  his  life 
In  mirth  and  other  melody  : 
Overall  where  he  gan  wend, 
Alle  they  said  :   "  Welcome,  fiend  ; 

Sit  down,  and  do  gladly." 
Till  on  a  time  he  was  willing 
(As  time  cometh  of  all  thing. 

So  saith  the  prophecy) 
A  wife  for  to  wed  and  have 
That  might  his  goodes  keep  and  save, 

And  for  to  leave  all  folly. 

There  dwelled  a  widow  in  that  countrie 
That  had  a  daughter  fair  and  free  : 

Of  her,  word  sprang  wide — 
For  she  was  both  stable  and  true. 
Meek  of  manners,  and  fair  of  hue  : 

So  said  men  in  that  tide. 

The  Wright  said  :  "  So  God  me  save, 
Such  a  wife  would  I  have 
To  lie  nightly  by  my  side." 

I  Rarities. 


ADAM  OF  COB  SAM.  27 

He  thought  to  speake  with  that  may, 
And  rose  early  on  a  day, 

And  thider  gan  he  to  ride. 

The  Wright  was  welcome  to  the  wife. 
And  her  saliied  all  so  blyve. 
And  so  he  did  her  daughter  free. 

For  the  errand  that  he  for  came 
Tho  he  spake,  that  good  yemane. 

Than  to  him  said  she, 
The  widow  said  :   "By  heaven  king, 
I  may  give  m  ith  her  no  thing. 

And  that  forthinketh  me  ;  ■•■ 
Save  a  garland  I  will  thee  give  ; 
Ye  shall  never  see,  while  ye  live, 

None  such  in  this  countrie. 
Have  here  this  garland  of  roses  rich  : 
In  all  this  lond  is  none  it  lich, 

For  it  will  ever  he  new. 
Weet  thou  well,  withouten  fable. 
All  the  while  thy  wife  is  stable 

The  chaplet  wol  hold  hue  ; 
And,  if  thy  wife  use  putry,^ 
Or  toll  ^  any  man  to  lie  her  by, 

Than  will  it  change  hue  : 
And  by  the  garland  thou  may  see 
Fickle  or  false  if  that  she  be, 

Or  else  if  she  be  true." 

Of  this  chaplet  him  was  full  fain. 
And  of  his  wife,  was  not  to  layn.'* 

He  wedded  her  full  soon  ; 
And  lad  her  home  with  solempnity, 
And  hild  her  bridal  dayes  three. — 

Whan  they  home  come. 
This  Wright  in  his  heart  cast, 
If  that  he  walked  east  or  west, 

As  he  was  wont  to  doon  : 
"  My  wife,  that  is  so  bright  of  blee, 
Men  wol  desire  her  fro  me, 

And  that  hastly  and  soon." 

But  soon  he  him  bethought 

That  a  chamber  should  be  wrought 

Both  of  lime  and  stone. 
With  walles  strong  as  any  steel, 
And  doors  subtly  made  and  wclc, 

He  outframed  it  soon. 
The  chamber  he  let  make  fast 
With  plaster  of  Paris  that  will  last  ;  — 

1  Is  a  subject  of  regret  to  me.  -  Unchastity. 

3  Take.  4  Conceal. 


28  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

Such  ouse  know  I  nevei;  none ; 
There  is  king  ne  emperour, 
And  he  were  locken  in  that  tower, 

That  could  get  out  of  that  wonne. 
Now  hath  he  done  as  he  thought, 
And  in  tlie  mids  of  the  floor  wrought 

A  wonder  strange  guile — 
A  trapdoore  round-about. 
That  no  man  might  come  in  nor  out. 

It  was  made  with  a  wile 
That  whoso  touched  it  anything 
Into  the  pit  he  should  fling 

Within  a  little  while. 
For  his  wife  he  made  that  place, 
That  no  man  should  beseek  her  of  grace, 

Nor  her  to  beguile. 

By  that  time  the  lord  of  the  town 
Had  ordained  timber  ready  bown,^ 

An  hall  to  make  of  tree. 
After  the  wright  the  lord  let  send 
For  that  he  should  with  him  lend* 

Moneths  two  or  three. 

• 

-  The  lord  said  :   "  Wolt  thou  have  thy  wife? 
I  will  send  after  her  blyve. 

That  she  may  come  to  thee." 
The  Wright  his  garland  had  take  with  him, 
That  was  bright  and  nothing  dim  ; 

It  was  fair  on  to  see. 
The  lord  axed  him  as  he  sat : 
*'  Fellow,  where  hadst  thou  this  hat, 

That  is  so  fair  and  new  ?  " 

The  wright  answered  all  so  blyve, 
And  said  :  "  Sir,  I  had  it  with  my  wife, 

And  that  dare  me  never  rue. 
Sir,  by  my  garland  I  may  see 
Fickle  or  false  if  that  she  be, 

Or  if  that  she  be  true  : 
And  if  my  wife  love  a  paramour, 
Than  will  my  garland  vade  colour. 

And  change  will  it  the  hue." 

The  lord  thought :  "  By  Goddes  might, 
That  will  I  weet  this  same  night, 
Whether  this  tale  be  true." 

To  the  Wright's  house  anon  he  went. 
He  found  the  wife  therein  present, 
That  was  so  bright  and  sheen. 
Soon  he  hailed  her  truly. 
And  so  did  she  the  lord  courtisly  : 

1  Prepared.  2  Stay. 


ADAM  OF  COBSAM.  29 


She  said  :  "  Welcome  ye  be." 
Thus  said  the  wife  of  the  house  : 
"  Sir,  how  fareth  my  sweet  spouse, 

That  heweth  upon  your  tree  ?  " 

"Certes,  dame,"  he  said,  "wele; 
And  I  am  come,  so  have  I  hele, 

To  weet  the  will  of  thee  : 
My  love  is  upon  thee  cast, 
That  methinketh  my  heart  wol  brest, 

It  wol  none  otherwise  be. 
Good  dame,  grant  me  thy  grace, 
To  play  with  thee  in  some  privy  place 

For  gold  and  eke  for  fee." 

"Good  sir,  let  be  your  fare, 
And  of  such  words  speak  no  mair, 

For  his  love  that  died  on  rood.^ 
Had  we  once  begun  that  glee, 
My  husband  by  his  garland  might  see  : 

For  sorrow  he  would  wax  wood."  ^ 

"Certes,  dame,"  he  said,  "nay: 
Love  me,  I  pray  you,  in  that  ye  may : 

For  God's  love,  change  thy  mood  I 
Forty  mark  shall  be  your  meed 
Of  silver  and  of  gold  so  rede. 

And  that  shall  do  thee  good." 

"  Sir,  that  deede  shall  be  done : 
Take  me  that  money  here  anon." 

"  I  swear  by  the  holy  rood, 
I  thought,  when  I  came  bidder, 
For  to  bring  it  all  togider. 

As  I  mot  break  my  hele  !"' 

There  she  tooke  forty  mark 

Of  silver  and  gold  stiff  and  stark ; 

She  took  it  fair  and  well. 
She  said :   "  Into  the  chamber  will  we, 
There  no  man  shall  us  see  : 

No  lenger  will  we  spare." 

Up  the  staler  they  gan  hie : 

The  steps  were  made  so  quaintly  * 

That  farther  might  he  not  fare. 
The  lord  stumbled  as  he  went  in  haste  ; 
He  fell  down  into  that  chast  ^ 
Forty  foot  and  somedele  mair. 


1  I  have  ventured  to  substitute,  for  the  rhyme's  sake,  "rood,"  in  lieu  of 
"tree,"  which  I  find  in  my  text :  so  also,  a  little  further  on,  "  mair,"  in  lieu  of 
"  more," — and,  on  p.  34,  "  done,"  in  lieu  of  "  do." 

3  Frantic.  3  Or  otherwise  may  I  forfeit  my  salvation 

4  Curiously,  ingeniously.  ^  Chest,  receptacle. 


30  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

The  lord  began  to  cry : 
The  wife  said  to  him  in  high, 
"Sir,  what  do  ye  there  ?" 

"Dame,  I  cannot  say  how 
That  I  am  come  hidder  now 

To  this  house  that  is  so  new  : 
I  am  so  deep  in  this  sure  floor 
That  I  ne  can  come  out  at  no  door : 

Good  dame,  on  me  thou  rue  !" 

"Nay,"  she  said,  "  so  mut  I  the. 
Till  mine  husband  come  and  see, 
I  shrew  him  that  it  thought." 

The  lord  arose  and  looked  about 
If  he  might  anywhere  get  out ; 

But  it  holp  him  right  nought. 
The  walles  were  so  thick  within 
That  he  nowhere  might  out  win. 

But  help  to  him  were  brought : 
And  ever  the  lord  made  evil  cheer, 
And  said  :   "  Dame,  thou  shalt  buy  this  dear  !" 

She  said  that  she  ne  rought.^ 

She  said:  "  I  recke  ne'er  ; 

While  I  am  here  and  thou  art  there, 

I  shrew  her  that  thee  doth  dread." 
The  lord  was  soon  out  of  her  thought : 
The  wife  went  into  her  loft ; 

She  sat,  and  did  her  deed. 

Then  it  fell  on  that  other  day 

Of  meat  and  drink  he  gan  her  pray  ; 

Thereof  he  had  great  need. 
He  said  :   "  Dame,  for  Saint  Charity, 
With  some  meat  thou  comfort  me  ! " 

She  said :   "  Nay,  so  God  me  speed  ! 
For  I  swear  by  sweet  St.  John, 
Meat  ne  drink  ne  gett'st  thou  none 

But  thou  wilt  sweat  or  swink  ; 
For  I  have  both  hemp  and  line. 
And  a  beating-stock  full  fine. 

And  a  swingle  "  good  and  great. 
If  thou  wilt  work,  tell  me  soon." 

"  Dame,  bring  it  forth,  it  shall  be  done  ; 
Full  gladly  would  I  eat." 

Sh,e  took  the  stock  in  her  hond, 
Aitd  into  the  pit  she  it  sclang  ^ 

1  Recked  not,  cared  not. 

2  A  wooden  instrument  used  for  the  clearing  of  hemp  and   flax   from   the 
stalks  &c.  3  Slung,  threw. 


ADAM  OF  COB  SAM.  31 

With  a  greate  heat : 
She  brought  the  line  and  hemp  on  her  back  : 
"Sir  lord,"  she  said,  "have  thou  that. 

And  learne  for  to  sweat." 

There  she  tooke  him  a  bond  ^ 
For  to  occupy  his  hond, 

And  )ade  him  fast  on  to  beat. 
He  laid  it  down  on  the  stone, 
And  laid  m  strockes  well  good  wone, 

And  'ipared  not  on  to  lain. 
Whan  that  he  had  wrought  a  thrave, 
Meat  and  drink  he  gan  to  crave, 

And  would  have  had  it  fain. 
"That  I  had  somewhat  for  to  eat 
Now  after  my  great  sweat, 

Methinketh  it  were  right : 
For  I  have  laboured  night  and  day 
Thee  for  to  please;  dame,  I  say, 

And  thereto  put  my  might." 

The  wife  said,  "  So  mut  I  have  hele, 
And  if  thy  worke  be  wrought  wele, 
Thou  shalt  have  to  dine." 

Meat  and  drink  she  him  bare, 
With  a  thrafe  of  flex  mair 

Of  full  long  bounden  line. 
So  fair  the  wife  the  lord  gan  pray 
That  he  should  be  working  aye. 

And  nought  that  he  should  blyn  : 
The  lord  was  fain  to  work  tho:  — 
But  his  men  knew  not  of  his  woe, 

Nor  of  their  lord's  pine. 

The  steward  to  the  wright  gan  say : 

"  Saw  thou  aught  of  my  lord  to-day, 

Whether  that  he  is  wend?" 

The  Wright  answered  and  said  :  "Nay; 
I  saw  him  not  sith  yesterday: 
I  trow  that  he  be  shent."-* 

The  steward  stood  the  wright  by, 
And  of  his  garland  had  ferly 

What  that  it  bemeant. 
The  steward  said:  "  So  God  me  save, 
Of  thy  garland  wonder  I  have, 

And  who  it  hath  thee  sent.' 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "be  the  same  hat 
I  can  know  if  my  wife  be  bad 

1  Bundle,  bavin,  bush  of  thorns.  -  Number.  '■*  Destroyed,  dead. 


32  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

To  me  by  any  other  man  : 
If  my  flowers  other  fade  or  fall, 
Then  doth  my  wife  me  wrong  withal. 
As  many  a  woman  can." 

The  steward  thought :  "  By  Goddes  might 
That  shall  I  preve  this  same  night, 

Whether  thou  bliss  or  ban." 
And  into  his  chamber  he  gan  gone. 
And  took  treasure  full  good  wone, 

And  forth  he  sped  him  than. 
But  he  ne  stint  at  no  stone 
Till  he  unto  the  wright's  house  come 

That  ilke  same  night. 
He  met  the  wife  about  the  gate : 
About  tlie  neck  he  gan  her  take, 

And  said:   "  My  deare  wight, 
All  the  good  that  is  mine 
I  will  thee  give  to  be  thine, 

To  lie  by  thee  all  night." 

She  said  :  "  Sir,  let  be  thy  fare  : 

My  husband  wol  weet  withouten  mair 

And  I  him  did  that  unright. 
I  would  not  he  might  it  weet 
For  all  the  good  that  I  might  gete. 

So  Jesus  mut  me  speed  : 
For,  and  any  man  lay  me  by. 
My  husband  would  it  weet  truly, — 
It  is  withouten  anydrede." 

The  steward  said  :  "  For  him  that  is^  wrought : 
Thereof,  dame,  dread  thee  nought. 

With  me  to  do  that  deed  : 
Have  here  of  me  twenty  mark 
Of  gold  and  silver  stiff  and  stark  ; 

This  treasure  shall  be  thy  meed." 

"  Sir,  and  I  grant  that  to  you. 

Let  no  man  weet  but  we  two  now." 

He  said  :   "Nay,  withouten  dread." 
The  steward  thought  :  "  Sickerly, 
Women  beth  both  quaint  and  sly." 

The  money  he  gan  her  bede  : 
He  thought  well  to  have  be  sped. 
And  of  his  errand  he  was  onredd^ 

Or  he  were  fro  hem  ygone. 

1  The  text  gives  "ys"  [is].  With  this  word,  the  meaning  of  the  sentence 
appears  to  be :  "  The  transaction  will  turn  to /5/i' advantage  too  (considering 
the  pay  that  you  will  receive)  : "  or  perhaps,  "  He  is  safely  provided  for."  But 
1  suspect  we  ought  to  read  "  us  "  :  in  that  case,  the  clause  would  be  a  simple 
adjuration—"  For  the  sake  of  Him  [God]  who  made  us  !  " 

-  Cheerless,  anxious? 


ADAM  OF  COBSAM.  33 

Up  the  staires  she  him  led, 
Till  he  saw  the  wrighte's  bed  : 

Of  treasure  rought  he  none. 
He  went  and  stumbled  at  a  stone  : 
Into  the  cellar  he  fill  soon, 

Down  to  the  bare  floor. 

The  lord  said  :   "  What  devil  art  thou? 
And  thou  haddest  fall  on  me  now, 
Thou  hadst  hurt  me  full  sore  !" 

The  steward  stert  and  stared  about, 
If  he  might  ower  get  out 
At  hole  less  or  mair. 

The  lord  said  :  "  Welcome,  and  sit  betime  ; 
For  thou  shalt  help  to  dight  ^  this  line. 
For  all  thy  fierce  fare."  ^ 

The  steward  looked  on  the  knight : — 
He  said  :  "  Sir,  for  Goddes  might, 
My  lord,  what  do  you  here  ?" 

He  said  :  * '  Fellow,  withouten  oath, 
For  o  errand  we  come  both  : 
The  sooth  wol  I  not  lete."^ 

Tho  came  the  wife  them  unto. 
And  said  :  "  Sirs,  what  do  you  two  ? 
Will  ye  not  learn  to  sweat?" 

Than  said  the  lord  her  unto  : 
"Dame,  your  line  is  ydo  : 

Now  would  I  fain  eat  : 
And  I  have  made  it  all  ilike, — 
Full  clear,  and  nothing  thick  : 

Methinketh  it  great  pain." 

The  steward  said  :  "Withouten  doubt, 
And  ever  I  may  win  out, 

I  will  break  her  brain  !" 

"  Fellow,  let  be,  and  say  not  so  ; 

For  thou  shalt  work  or  ever  tliou  go, — 

Thy  words  thou  turn  again. 
Fain  thou  shalt  be  so  to  do, 
And  thy  good-will  put  tlicrcto  : 

As  a  man  buxom  and  bayn,* 
Thou  shalt  rubbe,  reel,  and  spin. 
And  thou  wolt  any  meat  win, — 

Tiiat  I  give  to  God  a  gift !  " 

1  Dress,  prepare.  "  Goings-on,  project. 

3  I  will  not  disguise  the  truth.  4  Alert. 

C 


34  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

The  steward  said  :  "  Then  have  I  wonder  ! 
Rather  would  I  die  for  hunger 
Without  hosel  or  shrift !" 

The  lord  said  :  "  So  have  I  hele, 
Thou  wilt  work,  if  thou  hunger  well, 

What  work  that  thee  be  brought." 
The  lord  sat,  and  did  his  work  : 
The  steward  drew  into  the  derk  ; 

Great  sorrow  was  in  his  thought. 
The  lord  said  :   ' '  Dame,  here  is  your  line  : 
Have  it  in  God's  blessing  and  mine  ; 

I  hold  it  well  y wrought." 

Meat  and  drink  she  gave  him  in. 
"The  steward,"  she  said,  "wol  he  not  spin? 
Will  he  do  right  nought?" 

The  lord  said  :  "  By  sweet  Sen  John, 
Of  this  meat  shall  he  have  none 

That  ye  have  me  bidder  brought  I" 

The  lord  eat  and  dranke  fast  : 
The  steward  hungered  at  the  last. 

For  he  gave  him  nought. 
The  steward  sat  all  in  a  study 
His  lord  had  forgot  courtesy. 
Th©  said  the  steward  :  "  Give  me  some." 

The  lord  said  :  "  Sorrow  have  the  morsel  or  sop 
That  shall  come  into  thy  throat ! 

Not  so  much  as  a  crumb  ! 
But  thou  wilt  help  to  dight  this  line. 
Much  hunger  it  shall  be  thine. 

Though  thou  make  much  moan  !" 

Up  he  rose,  and  went  thereto  : — 
"  Better  is  me  thus  to  do, 

While  it  must  needs  be  done." 

The  steward  he  gan  fast  to  knock  : 
The  wife  threw  him  a  swingling-stock, 

His  meat  therewith  to  win. 
She  brought  a  swingle  at  the  last  : 
"Good  sirs,"  she  said,  "swingle  on  fast  ; 

For  nothing  that  ye  blyn." 
She  gave  him  a  stock  to  sit  upon. 
And  said  :  "  Sirs,  this  work  must  needs  be  done, 

All  that  that  is  herein." 
The  steward  took  up  a  stick  to  say  : — 
"  See,  see,^ — swingle  better  if  ye  may  : 

It  M'ill  be  the  better  to  spin." 

.u  ^  Printed  in  my  original  *'  Sey,   seye."     I  am  not  clear  as  to  the  sense  of 


ADAM  OF  COBSAM.  35 

Were  the  lord  never  so  great, 

Yet  was  he  fain  to  work  for  his  meat. 

Though  he  were  never  so  sad  : 
But  the  steward,  that  was  so  stout, 
Was  fain  to  swingle  the  scales  out ; 

Thereof  he  was  not  glad. 

The  lord's  meyne  ^  that  were  at  home 
Wist  not  where  he  was  become  : 
They  were  full  sore  adrad. 

The  proctor  of  the  parish-church  right 
Came  and  looked  on  the  wright ; 

lie  looked  as  he  were  mad. 
Fast  the  proctor  gan  him  frayn  :  ^ 
"  Where  hadst  thou  this  garland  gayii  ? 

It  is  ever  like-new." 

The  Wright  gan  say  :   "Fell6%v, — 
With  my  wife,  if  thou  wilt  know  : 

That  dare  me  not  rue  : 
For,  all  the  while  my  wife  true  is, 
My  garland  wol  hold  hue,  I  wis, 

And  never  fall  nor  fade  ; 
And,  if  my  wife  take  a  paramour, 
Than  wol  my  garland  vade  the  floure,  — 

That  dare  I  lay  mine  head." 

The  proctor  thought :   "In  good  fay, 
That  shall  I  weet  this  same  day, 
Whether  it  may  so  be." 

To  the  wrighte's  house  he  went  : 
He  greet  the  wife  with  fair  intent  : 
She  said  :  "  Sir,  welcome  be  ye." 

"Ah  dame  !  my  love  is  on  you  fast, 
Sith  the  time  I  saw  you  last ! 

I  pray  j'ou  it  may  so  be 
That  ye  would  grant  me  of  your  grace 
To  play  with  you  in  some  privy  place, 

Or  else  to  death  mut  me  !" 

Fast  the  proctor  gan  to  pray ; 
And  ever  to  him  she  said  :   "  Nay, 
That  wol  I  not  do. 

these  three  lines.  The  steward,  it  seems,  "took  up  a  stick  to  say:"  but  why 
or  what  "  to  say  "  I  can't  make  out,  nor  (for  certain)  whether  he  "took  up  a 
stick"  for  some  flax-dressing  purpose,  orperh.^ps  in  exasperation  at  the  preach- 
ments of  the  Wright's  wife.  "Then  the  two  following  lines  seem  to  be  spoken  by 
tliat  lady  :  who,  with  bantering  and  ruthless  calmness,  persists  in  ignoring 
every  aspect  of  the  transaction  save  the  simple  matter  of  business— efficient 
workmanlike  flax-dressuig. 

1  Household,  dependents.  2  Ask. 


36  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

Hadst  thou  done  that  deed  with  me, 
My  spouse  by  his  garland  might  see  ; 
That  should  turn  me  to  woe." 

The  proctor  said  ;   "By  heaven  King, 
If  he  say  to  thee  anything, 

He  shall  have  sorrow  unsought : 
Twenty  mark  I  wol  thee  give  ; 
It  wol  thee  helpe  well  to  live  : 

The  money  here  have  I  brought:" 

Now  hath  she  the  treasure  ta'en  ; 
And  up  the  staire  be  they  gane — 

(What  helpeth  it  to  lie  ?) 
The  wife  went  to  the  stair  beside  ; 
The  proctor  went  a  little  too  wide : 

He  fell  down  by  and  by. 
When  he  into  the  cellar  fell, 
He  went  ^  to  have  sunk  into  hell ; 

He  was  m  heart  full  sorry. 
The  steward  looked  on  the  knight, 
And  said  :  "  Proctor,  for  Goddes  might. 

Come  and  sit  us  by." 

The  proctor  began  to  stare. 

For  he  was  he  wist  never  where,: 

But  well  he  knew  the  knight. 
And  the  steward  that  swingled  the  line. 
He  said  :  "  Sirs,  for  Goddes  pine, 

What  do  ye  here  this  night  ?  " 

The  steward  said  :  "  God  give  thee  care  ! 
Thou  earnest  to  look  how  we  fare. 
Now  help  this  line  were  dight  !  " 

He  stood  still  in  a  great  thought ; 
What  to  answer  he  wist  nought. 

"  By  Mary  full  of  might," 
The  proctor  said,  "  What  do  ye  in  this  inn, 
For  to  beat  this  wife's  line  ? 

For  Jesus'  love  full  of  might," 
The  proctor  said  right  as  he  thought, 
"  For  me  it  shall  be  evil-wi'ought. 

And  I  may  see  aright ! 
For  I  learned  never  in  lond 
For  to  have  a  swingle  in  hond. 

By  day  nor  be  night." 

The  steward  said  :  "  As  good  as  thou 
We  hold  us  that  be  here  now. 
And  let  preve  it  be  sight : 

1  Weened. 


ADAM  OF  COBSAM.  37 

Yet  must  us  work  for  oure  meat ; 
Or  elles  shall  we  none  get 

Meat  nor  drink  to  our  hond." 

The  lord  said  ;  "  Why  flyte  ^  ye  two  ? 
I  trow  ye  will  work  or  ye  go, 
If  it  be  as  I  understond." 

About  he  goes  twice  or  thrice  : 
They  eat  and  drink  in  such  wise 

That  they  give  him  right  nought. 

The  proctor  said  :  "  Think  ye  no  shame  ? 
Give  me  some  meat  (ye  be  to  blame  !) 
Of  that  the  wife  ye  brought." 

The  steward  said  :    "Evil  speed  the  sop, 
If  any  morsel  come  in  thy  throat, 

But  thou  with  us  hadst  wrought  ! " 

The  proctor  stood  in  a  study 
Whether  he  might  work  hem  by  : 

And  so,  to  turn  his  thought, 
To  the  lord  he  drewe  near, 
And  to  him  said  with  mild  cheer, 

",That  Mary  mot  thee  speed  !  " 

The  proctor  began  to  knock  : 
The  goodwife  raught  ^  him  a  rock. 

For  thereto  had  she  need. 
She  said  :  "When  I  was  maid  at  home, 
Other  work  could  I  do  none, 

My  life  therewith  to  lead." 
She  gave  him  in  hand  a  rocke-hynd, 
And  bade  liem  ^  fast  for  to  wind, 

Or  else  to  let-be  his  deed. 

"Yes,  dame,"  he  said,  "so  have  I  helc, 
I  shall  it  work  both  fair  and  well, 

As  ye  have  taughte  me." 
He  waved  up  a  stride^  of  line  ; 
And  he  span  well  and  fine 

Before  the  swingle-tree. 

The  lord  said  :  "  Thou  spinnest  too  great ; 
Therefore  thou  shalt  have  no  meat — 
That  thou  shalt  well  see." 

Thus  they  sat  and  wrought  fast 
Till  the  weeke-days  were  past  : 

Then  the  wright  home  came  he. 

1  Wrangle.  *  Reached.         "  Hem  =  thcm  ;  but  I  think  it  should  be  "him." 

4  A  strike  ;  as  much  as  is  heckled  at  one  handful. 


38  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 

And,  as  he  came  by  his  house  side, 
He  heard  noise  that  was  not  ryde,^ 

Of  persons  two  or  three  : — 
One  of  hem  knocked  Hne  ; 
Another  swingled  good  and  fine 

Before  the  swingle-tree  ; 
The  third  did  reel  and  spin, 
Meat  and  drink  therewith  to  win — 

Great  need  thereof  had  he. 
Thus  the  wright  stood  hearkening  : 
His  wife  was  ware  of  his  coming, 

And  against  him  went  she. 
"  Dame,"  he  said,  "  what  is  this  din  ? 
I  hear  great  noise  here  within  : 

Tell  me,  so  God  thee  speed." 

"Sir,"  said  she,  "workmen  three 
Be  come  to  helpe  you  and  me  : 
Thereof  we  have  great  need." 

"Fain  would  I  weet  what  they  were  !  " 
But  when  he  saw  his  lord  there. 

His  heart  began  to  drede. 
To  see  his  lord  in  that  place, 
He  thought  it  was  a  strange  case,— r 

And  said,  so  God  him  speed  ! 
"  What  do  ye  here,  my  lord  and  knight? 
Tell  me  now,  for  Goddes  might. 

How  came  this  unto." 

The  knight  said  :   "  What  is  best  rede  ? 
Mercy  I  ask  for  my  misdeed  ! 
My  heart  is  wonder  woe  ! " 

"  So  is  mine,  verament ; 

To  see  you  among  this  flex  and  hemp, 

Full  sore  it  rueth  me  ; 
To  see  you  in  such  heaviness, 
Full  sore  mine  lieart  it  doth  oppress, 

By  God  in  trinity  !" 

The  wright  bade  his  wife  let  hem  out.— 
"  Nay  then,  sorrow  come  on  my  snout 

If  they  pass  hence  to-day. 
Till  that  my  lady  come  and  see 
How  they  would  have  done  with  me  ! 

But  now  late  me  say." 

Anon  she  sent  after  the  lady  bright 
For  to  fett  home  her  lord  and  knight : 

1  Slight. 


ADAM  O'F  COBSAM.  39 


Thereto  she  said  nought. 
She  told  her  what  they  had  meant, 
And  of  their  purpose  and  their  intent 

That  they  would  have  wrought. 
Glad  was  that  lady  of  that  tiding, 
When  she  wist  her  lord  was  living  : 

Thereof  she  was  full  fain. 

Whan  she  came  unto  the  stair  aboun, 
She  looked  unto  the  cellar  down. 

And  said  (this  is  not  to  layn)  : 
"  Good  sirs,  what  do  ye  here  ?  " 

"  Dame,  we  buy  our  meat  full  dear. 

With  great  travail  and  pain. 
I  pray  you  help  that  we  were  out ; 
And  I  will  swear  withouten  doubt 

Never  to  come  here  again." 

The  lady  spake  the  wife  tmtil, 
And  said  :  "  Dame,  if  it  be  your  will, 
What  do  these  meyne  here  ?  " 

The  carpenter's  wife  her  answered  sickerly  : 
"All  they  would  have  lain  me  byj 

Everich  in  their  manneer  : 
Gold  and  silver  they  me  brought, 
And  forsook  it  and  would  it  nought, 

The  rich  gifts  so  clear. 
Willing  they  were  to  do  me  shame  : 
I  took  their  gifts  withouten  blame, 

And  there  they  be  all  three." 

The  lady  answered  her  anon  : 
"  I  have  things  to^do  at  home 

Mo  than  two  or  three. 
I  wist  my  lord  never  do  right  nought 
Of  no  thing  that  should  be  wrought 

Such  as  falleth  to  me." 

The  lady  laughed  and  made  good  gatne 
Whan  they  came  out,  all  in  same, 
From  the  swingle-tree. 

The  knight  said  :  "  Fellows  in  fere, 
I  am  glad  that  we  be  here, 

By  Goddes  dear  pity. 
Dame,  and  ye  had  been  with  us,- 
Ye  would  have  wrought,  by  sweet  Jesit^ 

As  well  as  did  we." 
And,  when  they  came  up  aboun, 
They  turned  about  and  looked  down. 

The  lord  said  :   "So  God  save  me, 


40  ADAM  OF  COBSAM. 


Yet  had  I  never  such  a  fytt 
As  I  have  had  in  that  low  pit — 
So  Mary  so  mut  me  speed  !  " 

The  knight  and  this  lady  bright, 
How  they  would  home  that  night, — 

For  nothing  they  would  abide. 
And  so  they  went  home  : 
This  said  Adam  of  ColDsam. 

By  the  way  as  they  rode 
Through  a  wood  in  their  playing, 
For  to  hear  the  fowles  sing 

They  hoved  still,  and  bode. 
The  steward  sware  by  Goddes  ore,^ 
And  so  did  the  proctor  much  more. 

That  never  in  their  life 
Would  tliey  no  more  come  in  that  wonne," 
Whan  they  were  ones  thence  come, 

This  forty  year  and  five. 
Of  the  treasure  that  they  brought 
The  lady  would  give  them  right  nought, 

But  gave  it  to  the  wright's  wife. 

Thus  the  wright's  garland  was  fair  of  hue, 
-And  his  wife  both  good  and  true  : 

Thereof  was  he  full  blithe. 
I  take  witness  at  great  and  small, 
Thus  true  been  good  women  all 

That  now  been  on  live  : 
So  come  thryst  on  their  heads. 
Whan  they  mumble  on  their  beds 

Their  paternoster  rive.^ 
Here  is  written  a  geste  of  the  wright 
That  had  a  garland  well  ydight — 

The  colour  will  never  fade. 
Now  God  that  is  heaven  King 
Grant  us  all  his  dear  blessing 

Our  heartes  for  to  glad  ! 
And  all  tho  that  do  her  husbands  right, 
Pray  we  to  Jesu  full  of  might 

That  fair  mot  hem  befall, 
And  that  they  may  come  to  heaven  bliss. 
For  thy  dear  moder's  love  thereof  not  to  miss. 

All  good  wives  all ! 

Now  all  tho  that  this  treatise  have  hard, 
Jesu  grant  hem  for  her  reward 

As  true  lovers  to  be 
As  was  the  wright  unto  his  wife, 


1  Grace.  2  Dwelling.  3  Rife,  abundantly. 


BORDE.  41 

And  she  to  him  during  her  Hfe  : 
Amen,  for  charity. 

Here  endeth  the  wright's  process  true, 
With  his  garland  fair  of  hue 

That  never  did  fade  the  colour. 
It  was  made  by  the  avise 
Of  his  vvive's  moder,  witty  and  wise, 

Of  flowers  most  of  honour,  — 
Of  roses  white  that  will  not  fade  ; 
Which  flower  all  Englond  doth  glad 

With  true-loves  meddled  ^  in  sight ; 
Unto  the  which  flower,  I  wis, 
The  love  of  God  and  of  the  commenys  ^ 

Subdued  been  of  right. 


ANDREW  BORDE. 

[Born  towards  1485,  died  in  1549.  Became  a  Carthusian  Monk  at  an  early 
age,  but  was  released  from  his  vows,  and  practised  physic.  Borde  was  a  great 
traveller,  for  his  time  ;  a  man  of  wit,  sense,  and  learning,  author  of  various 
books  of  a  substantial  kind  :  others  which  show  him  in  the  light  of  a  "INIerry 
Andrew "  (and  it  has  been  said  that  that  term  took  its  origin  from  him)  have 
been  attrilijuted  to  him  with  little  apparent  reason — such  as  the  Tales  of  the 
Mad  Men  o/Gothavt^  Accusations  of  incontinence  were  brought  against  him 
both  in  early  and  in  late  life  :  finally  he  was  confined  in  the  Fleet  Prison,  pro- 
bably on  a  charge  of  this  kind,  and  soon  afterwards  died, — some  say  that  he 
poisoned  himself.— Our  extracts  are  taken  from  The  First  Book  oj the  Intro- 
duction 0/ Kno7vledgc,  wherein  Borde  puts  into  the  mouths  of  the  natives  of 
various  countries  some  characteristic  particulars  regarding  themselves.] 

AN  IRISHMAN  AND  A  LOMBARD. 

I  AM  an  Irishman,  in  Ireland  I  was  born  ; 
I  love  to  wear  a  saffron  shirt,  althiDugh  it  be  to-torn. 
My  anger  and  my  hastiness  doth  hurt  me  fiill  sore  ; 
I  cannot  leave  it,  it  creaseth  more  and  more  ; 
And,  although  I  be  poor,  I  have  an  angry  heart. 
1  can  keep  a  hobby,  a  garden,  and  a  cart ; 
I  can  make  good  mantles,  and  gotnl  Irish  fryce  ;  ' 
I  can  make  aqua  vitse,  and  good  square  dice. 
Pediculus  otherwhile  do  bite  me  by  the  back, 
•Wherefore  divers  times  I  make  their  bones  crack. 
I  do  love  to  eat  my  meat,  sitting  upon  the  ground, 
And  do  lie  in  oaten  straw,  sleeping  full  sound. 
I  care  not  for  riches,  but  for  meat  and  drink  ; 
And  divers  times  I  wake  when  other  men  do  wink. 

1  I.e.,  mingled  with  true-loves.  The  question  remains  whether  "  true-loves  " 
are  to  be  understood  as  figures  like  true-lovers'-knots  (which  I  should  rather 
suppose),  or  as  the  herb  true-love,  a  sort  of  quatrcfoil  otherwise  termed  Herb 
Pans. 

-  Commons.  The  reader  will  recognize  in  this  whole  passage  the  Yotkist 
sympathies  of  its  writer.  3  Frieze. 


42  WYA  TT. 


I  do  use  no  pot  to  seeth  my  meat  in, 
Wherefore  I  do  boil  it  in  a  beaste's  skin  ; 
Then,  after  my  meat,  the  broth  I  do  drink  up  ; 
I  care  not  for  my  master,  neither  cruse  nor  cup. 
I  am  not  newfangled,  nor  never  will  be  ; 
I  do  live  in  poverty,  in  mine  own  countree. 


I  AM  a  Lombart,  and  subtle  craft  I  have, 
To  deceive  a  gentleman,  a  yeman,  or  a  knave  ; 
I  work  by  policy,  subtlety,  and  craught,-^ 
The  which,  otherwhile,  doth  bring  me  to  nought. 
I  am  the  next  neighbour  to  the  Italian  ; 
We  do  bring  many  things  out  of  all  fashion  ; 
We  care  for  no  man,  and  no  man  careth  for  us  ; 
Our  proud  hearts  maketh  us  to  fare  the  worse. 
In  our  country  we  eat  adders,  snails,  and  frogs, 
And  above  all  thing  we  be  sure  of  cur  dogs  ; 
For  men's  shins  they  will  lie  in  wait ; 
It  is  a  good  sport  to  see  them  so  to  bait. 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT. 

[Born  in  1503,  at  Allington  Castle,  Kent,  the  seat  of  his  father,  who  stood 
deservedly  high  in  favour  with  Henry  VII.  ;  died  in  October  1542,  at  Sher- 
borne, Dorsetshire.  Wyatt  was  a  man  of  many  gifts:  handsome  in  person, 
having  a  form  wherein  "force  and  beauty  met,"  as  Lord  Surrey  said  ;  skilled 
in  languages,  music,  and  other  accomplishments  ;  a  soldier  and  negociator  ;  and 
in  poetry  surpassing  all  his  predecessors  since  the  time  of  Chaucer — manly  both 
in  his  force  and  in  his  tenderness,  and  every  now  and  then  thrilling  the  reader 
with  his  deep,  true,  and  direct  touches  of  passionate  appeal.  Being  an  influen- 
tial man  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII.,  he  used  his  opportunities  for  the  advance- 
ment of  others,  rather  than  himself.  He  married  very  early  ;  but  there  is  some 
ground  for  thinking  that  he  was  not  insensible  at  a  later  date  to  the  charms  of 
Anne  Boleyn.  He  afterwards  spent  some  considerable  time  in  diplomatic  ser- 
vices in  Spain,  and  as  ambassador  in  Paris.  Returning  to  England  in  1540, 
he  was  accused  of  treasonable  complicity  with  Cardinal  Pole,  and  was  im- 
prisoned in  the  Tower ;  but  had  the  good  fortune  of  triumphantly  vindicating 
himself,  even  in  the  eyes  of  that  decapitating  monarch  Henry  VlII.,  whose 
good  opinion  he  continued  to  enjoy.  Ht  was  travelling  on  the  service  of  the 
state  to  Falmouth,  when  his  exertions  brought  on  a  fever  of  which  he  died. 
Wyatt  had  a  leaning  to  the  Protestant  side  in  religion  :  his  son,  also  named  Sir 
Thomas  Wyatt,  conspired  against  Queen  Mary,  and  was  executed  in  1554.] 

THE  RECURED  LOVER 

EXULTETH  IN  HIS  FREEDOM,  AND  VOWETH  TO  REMAIN  FREE  UNTIL  DEATH. 

I  AM  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be  ; 
Eut  how  that  I  am  none  knoweth  tndy. 
Be  it  evil,  be  it  well,  be  I  bond,  be  I  free, 
I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be. 

I  lead  my  life  indifferently  ; 
I  mean  no  thing  but  honesty  ; 
And,  though  folks  judge  full  diversely, 
I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  die. 

1  Craft. 


WYATT.  43 


I  do  not  rejoice,  nor  yet  complain  ; 
Both  mirth  and  sadness  I  do  refrain, 
And  use  the  means  since  folks  will  feign  ; 
Yet  I  am  as  I  am,  be  it  pleasure  or  pain. 

Divers  do  judge  as  they  do  trow, 
Some  of  pleasure  and  some  of  woe. 
Yet,  for  all  that,  nothing  they  know  , 
But  I  am  as  I  am,  wheiesoever  I  go. 

But,  since  judgers  do  thus  decay. 
Let  every  man  his  judgment  say ; 
I  will  it  take  in  sport  and  play. 
For  I  am  as  I  am,  whosoever  say  nay. 

Who  judgeth  well,  well  God  him  send  ; 
Who  judgeth  evil,  God  them  amend  ; 
To  judge  the  best  therefore  intend, 
For  I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  end. 

Yet  some  there  be  that  take  delight 
To  judge  folks'  thought  for  envy  and  spite  , 
But,  whether  they  judge  me  wrong  or  right, 
I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  do  I  write. 

Praying  you  all  that  this  do  read 
To  trust  it  as  you  do  your  creed  ; 
And  not  to  think  I  change  my  weed, 
For  I  am  as  I  am,  however  I  speed. 

But  how  that  is  I  leave  to  you  ; 
Judge  as  ye  list,  false  or  true. 
Ye  know  no  more  than  afore  ye  knew  ; 
Yet  I  am  as  I  am,  whatever  ensue. 

And  from  this  mind  I  will  not  flee  ; , 
But,  to  you  all  that  misjudge  me, 
I  do  protest,  as  ye  may  see, 
That  I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  be. 


OF  HIS  LOVE,  THAT  PRICKED  HER  FINGER  WITH 
A  NEEDLE. 

She  sat  and  sewed  that  hath  done  me  the  wrong 
Whereof  I  plain,  and  have  done  many  a  day  : 

And,  whilst  she  heard  my  plaint,  in  piteous  song 
She  wished  my  heart  the  sampler,  as  it  lay. 

The  blind  master  whom  1  have  served  so  long, 
Grudging  to  hear  that  he  did  hear  her  say, 

Made  her  own  weapon  do  her  finger  bleed, 

To  feel  if  pricking  were  so  good  indeed. 


4+  WVA  TT. 


What  man  hath  heard  such  crueUy  before  ? 

That,  when  my  plaint  remembered  her  my  woe 
That  caused  it,  she,  cruel  more  and  more, 

Wished  each  stitch,  as  she  did  sit  and  sew, 
Had  pricked  my  heart  for  to  increase  my  sore. 

And,  as  I  think,  she  thought  it  had  been  so  : 
For,  as  she  thought  "  this  is  his  heart  indeed," 
She  pricked  hard,  and  made  herself  to  bleed. 


HOW  TO  USE  THE  COURT,  AND  HIMSELF  THEREIN. 

WRITTEN  TO  SIR  FRANCIS  BRYAN. 

A  SPENDING  hand  that  alvvay  poureth  out 

Had  need  to  have  a  bringer-in  as  fast ; 

And  on  the  stone  that  still  doth  turn  about 

There  grow'th  no  moss  :  these  proverbs  yet  do  last ; 

Reason  hath  set  them  in  so  sure  a  place 

That  length  of  years  their  force  can  never  waste. 

When  I  remember  this,  and  eke  the  case 

Wherein  thou  stand'st,  I  thought  forthwith  to  write, 

Bryan,  to  thee,  who  knows  how  great  a  grace 

In  writing  is,  to  counsel  man  the  right. 

To  thee  therefore  that  trots  still  up  and  down. 

And  never  rests,  but,  running  day  and  night 

From  realm  to  realm,  from  city,  street,  and  town, — 

Why  dost  thou  wear  thy  body  to  the  bones  ? 

And  mightst  at  home  sleep  in  thy  bed  of  down, 

And  drink  good  ale  so  nappy  for  the  nones. 

Feed  thyself  fat,  and  heap  up  pound  by  pound. 

Lik'st  thou  not  this?    "No."     Why?    "  For  swine  so  groins 

In  sty,  and  chaw  dung  moulded  on  the  ground, 

And  drivel  on  pearls,  with  head  still  in  the  manger  : 

So  of  the  harp  the  ass  doth  hear  the  sound  : 

So  sacks  of  dirt  be  filled  up  in- the  cloister. 

That  serve  for  less  than  do  these  fatted  swine. 

Though  I  seem  lean  and  dry,  withouten  moisture, 

Yet  will  I  serve  my  prince,  my  lord  and  thine  ; 

And  let  them  live  to  feed  the  paunch  that  list  ; 

So  I  may  live  to  feed  both  me  and  mine." 

By  God  !  well  said.     But  what  and  if  thou  wist 

How  to  bring  in,  as  fast  as  thou  dost  spend  ? 

"  That  would  I  learn."     And  it  shall  not  be  missed 

To  tell  thee  how.     Now  hark  what  I  intend : 

Thou  know'st  well  first,  whoso  can  seek  to  please 

Shall  purchase  friends,  where  trutli  shall  but  offend. 

Flee  therefore  truth,— it  is  both  wealth  and  ease  ; 

For,  though  that  truth  of  every  man  hath  praise, 

Full  near  that  wind  go'th  truth  in  great  misease. 


WYA  TT.  45 


Use  virtue,  as  it  goeth  now-a-days, 

In  word  alone,  to  make  thy  language  sweet : 

And  of  thy  deed  yet  do  not  as  thou  says. 

Else  be  thou  sure  thou  shalt  be  far  unmeet 

To  get  thy  bread,  each  thing  is  now  so  scant : 

Seek  still  thy  profit  upon  thy  bare  feet. 

Lend  in  no  wise,  for  fear  that  thou  do  want, 

Unless  it  be  as  to  a  calf  a  cheese,— 

But  if  thou  can  be  sure  to  win  a  cant  '^ 

Of  half  at  least.     It  is  not  good  to  leese. 

Learn  at  the  lad  that,  in  a  long  white  coat. 

From  under  the  stall,  withouten  lands  or  fees, 

Hath  leaped  into  the  shop  ;  who  knows  by  rote 

This  rule  that  I  have  told  thee  here  before. 

Some  time  also  rich  age  begins  to  dote  ; 

See  thou  when  there  thy  gain  may  be  the  more. 

Stay  him  by  the  arm  whereso  he  walk  or  go  ; 

Be  near  alway  ;  and,  if  he  cough  too  sore. 

What  he  hatli  spit  tread  out ;  and  please  him  so. 

A  diligent  knave  that  picks  his  master's  purse 

May  please  him  so  that  he,  withouten  mo, 

Executor  is :  and  what  is  he  the  worse  ? 

But,  if  so  chance  thou  get  nought  of  the  man, 

The  widow  may  for  all  thy  pain  disburse. 

A  rivelled  skm,  a  stinking  breath  ;  what  than  ? 

A  toothless  mouth  shall  do  thy  lips  no  harm. 

The  gold  is  good  :  and  though  she  curse  or  ban. 

Yet  where  thee  list  thou  mayst  lie  good  and  warm  ; 

Let  the  old  mule  bite  upon  the  bridle, 

Whilst  there  do  lie  a  sweeter  in  thy  arm. 

In  this  also  see  that  thou  be  not  idle  : — 

Thy  niece,  thy  cousin,  sister,  or  thy  daughter. 

If  she  be  fair,  if  handsome  be  her  middle. 

If  thy  better  hath  her  love  besought  her, 

Advance  his  cause,  and  he  shall  help  thy  need  : 

It  is  but  love,  turn  thou  it  to  a  laughter. 

But  ware,  I  say,  so  gold  thee  help  and  speed. 

That  in  this' case  thou  be  not  so  unwise 

As  Pandar  was  in  such  a  like  deed  ; 

For  he,  the  fool  of  conscience,  was  so  nice 

That  he  no  gain  would  have  for  all  his  pain. 

Be  next  thyself,  for  friendship  bears  no  price. 

Laughest  thou  at  me  ?     Why  ?     Uo  I  speak  in  vain  ? 

"  No,  not  at  thee,  but  at  thy  thrifty  jest. 

Wouldst  thou  I  should,  for  any  loss  or  gain. 

Change  that  fos  gold  that  I  have  ta'en  for  best, — 

Next  godly  things,  to  have  an  honest  name? 

Should  I  leave  that?     Then  take  me  for  a  beast  !" 


1  A  portion,  or  eanllc. 


46  TUSSER. 


Nay  then,  farewell ;  and,  if  thou  care  for  shame, 

Content  thee  then  with  honest  poverty  ; 

With  a  free  tongue  what  thee  dislikes  to  blame, 

And,  for  thy  truth,  sometime  adversity. 

And  therewithal  this  gift  I  shall  thee  give  ; — 

In  this  world  now  little  prosperity. 

And  coin  to  keep,  as  water  in  a  sieve. 


THOMAS  TUSSER. 

[Born  towards  1515,  died  towards  1582.  Being  a  chorister  in  the  collegiate 
chapel  of  Wallingford  Castle,  he  was  impressed  into  the  service  of  the  royal 
chapel ;  afterwards  became  a  retainer  of  Lord  Paget ;  and  then  a  farmer  at 
Kadwade  (or  Cattiwade)  in  Suffolk,  and  in  1557  published  his  noted  work,  A 
Hundred  Points  of  good  Husbandry  (from  which  our  specimen  is  taken).  The 
"  Hundred  "  became  ultimately  "  Five-hundred."  It  is  disheartening  to  learn 
that  this  lawgiver  of  the  olden  farmers  was  himself,  according  to  Fuller,  the 
reverse  of  successful  in  farming.  "  He  traded  at  large  in  oxen,  sheep,  dairies, 
grain  of  all  kinds,  to  no  profit :  whether  he  bought  or  sold,  he  lost,  and,  when 
a  renter,  impoverished  himself,  and  neyer  enriched  his  landlord."] 

GOOD  HUSBAND  AND  UNTHRIFT. 

Comparing  good  husband  with  unthrift  his  brother 
The  better  discerneth  the  t'one  from  the  t'other, 

III  husbandry  braggeth 

To  go  with  the  best : 
Good  husbandry  baggeth 

Up  gold  in  his  chest. 

Ill  husbandry  trudgeth 

With  unthrifts  about : 
Good  husbandry  snudgeth, 

For  fear  of  a  doubt. 

Ill  husbandry  spendeth  ' 

Abroad,  like  a  mome : 
Good  husbandry  tendeth 

His  charges  at  home. 

Ill  husbandry  selleth 

'His  corn  on  the  ground  : 
Good  husbandry  smelleth 

No  gain  that  way  found, 

111  husbandry  loseth. 

For  lack  of  good  fence  ; 
Good  husbandry  closeth, 

And  gaineth  the  pence. 

Ill  husbandry  trusteth 
To  him  and  to  her  ; 


TUSSER.  47 

Good  husbandry  lusteth 
Himself  for  to  stir. 

Ill  husbandry  eateth 

Himself  out  of  door  : 
Good  husbandry  meateth 

His  friend  and  the  poor. 

Ill  husbandry  dayeth, 

Or  letteth  it  lie  : 
Good  husbandry  payeth. 

The  cheaper  to  buy. 

Ill  husbandry  lurketh, 

And  stealeth  a  sleep  : 
Good  husbandry  worketh 

His  household  to  keep. 

Ill  husbandry  liveth 

By  that  and  by  this  : 
Good  husbandry  giveth 

To  every  man  his. 

Ill  husbandry  taketh, 

And  spendeth  up  all : 
Good  husbandry  maketh 

Good  shift  with  a  small. 

Ill  husbandry  prayeth 

His  wife  to  make  shift : 
Good  husbandry  sayeth 

"Take  this  of  my  gift." 

Ill'  husbandry  drowseth 

At  fortune  so  awk  ; 
Good  husbandry  rouseth 

Himself  as  a  hawk. 

Ill  husbandry  lieth 

In  prison  for  debt  : 
Good  husbandry  spieth 

Where  profit  to  get. 

Ill  husbandry  ways  hath 

To  fraud  what  he  can  ; 
Good  husbandry  praise  hath 

Of  every  man. 

Ill  husbandry  never 

Hath  wealtli  to  keep  touch : 
Good  husbandi-y  ever 

Hath  penny  in  pouch. 


48  RHODES. 

Good  husband  his  boon 
Or  request  hath  afar  : 

111  husband  as  soon 

Hath  a  toad  with  an  R.^ 


HUGH  RHODES. 

[Was  a  gentleman  of  the  King's  Chapel  towards  1550.  Wrote  a  Book  oj 
Nurture  {whence  our  extract),  and  a  Song  0/  the  Child-Bishoj>.\ 

CAUTIONS. 

He  that  spendeth  much, 

And  getteth  nought ; 
He  that  oweth  much, 

And  hath  nought; 
He  that  looketh  in  his  purse 

And  findeth  nought, — 
He  may  be  sorry, 

And  say  nought. 

He  that  may  and  will  not, 
He  then  that  would  shall  not. 
He  that  would  and  cannot 
May  I'epent  and  sigh  not. 

He  that  sweareth 

Till  no  man  trust  him  ; 
He  that  lieth 

Till  no  man  believe  him  ; 
He  that  borroweth 

Till  no  man  will  lend  him, — 
Let  him  go  where 

No  man  knoweth  him. 

He  that  hath  a  good  master, 

And  cannot  keejD  him  ; 
He  that  hath  a  good  servant, 

And  not  content  with  him  ; 
He  that  hath  such  conditions 

That  no  man  loveth  him, — 
May  well  know  other. 

But  few  men  will  know  him. 

i  One  of  the  editors  of  Tusser  understands  this  expression  to  amount  to  much 
the  same  as  "getting  more  kicks  than  halfpence."  He  quotes  from  Brockett 
the  proverb,  "  Over-many  masters,  as  the  toad  said  when  under  the  harrow." 


SPENSER.  49 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 

[Born  iu  London,  1553 ;  died  in  Westminster,  i6  January  1599,  Th.e  P}vs- 
cpopoia  is  au  early  poem,  published  in  1591,  and  then  spoken  ot  by  the  author 
as  "long  sithens  composed  in  the  raw  conceit  of  my  youth."  It  is  evidently  in 
large  measure  a  satire  :  the  Lord  Treasurer  Burleigh  is  regarded  as  the  main 
object  of  attack.] 

PROSOPOPOIA;  OR,  MOTHER  HUBBARD'S  TALE. 

It  was  the  month  in  v/hich  the  righteous  maid 

That,  for  disdain  of  sinful  world's  upbraid, 

Fled  back  to  heaven  whence  she  was  first  conceived, 

Into  her  sib/er  bower  the  Sun  received  ; 

And  the  hot  Syrian  dog  on  him  awaiting, 

After  the  chafed  lion's  cruel  baiting. 

Corrupted  had  the  air  Avith  his  noisome  breath. 

And  poured  on  the  earth  plague,  pestilence,  and  death. 

Amongst  the  rest,  a  wicked  malady 

Reigned  amongst  men,  that  many  did  to  die, 

Deprived  of  sense  and  ordinary  reason. 

That  it  to  leeches  seemed  strange  and  geason. 

My  fortune  was,  'mongst  many  others  moe, 

To  be  partaker  of  their  common  woe. 

And  my  weak  body,  set  on  fire  with  grief, 

Was  robbed  of  rest  and  natural  relief. 

In  this  ill  plight  there  came  to  visit  me 

Some  friends,  who,  sorry  my  said  case  to  see, 

Began  to  comfort  me  in  cheerful  wise. 

And  means  of  gladsome  solace  to  devise. 

But,  seeing  kindly  Sleep  refuse  to  do 

His  office,  and  my  feeble  eyes  forego. 

They  sought  my  troubled  sense  how  to  deceive 

With  talk,  that  might  unquiet  fancies  reave  ; 

And,  sitting  all  on  seats  about  me  round, 

With  pleasant  tales,  fit  for  that  idle  stound. 

They  cast  in  course  to  waste  the  weary  hours. 

Some  told  of  ladies  and  their  paramours : 

Some  of  brave  knights  and  their  renowned  squires ; 

Some  of  the  fairies  and  their  strange  attires; 

And  some  of  giants  hard  to  be  believed; 

'I'hat  the  delight  thereof  me  much  relieved. 

Amongst  t!ie  rest  a  good  old  woman  was, 

Hight  Mother  Hubbard,  who  did  far  surpass 

The  rest  in  honest  mirth,  that  'seemed  her  well. 

She,  when  her  turn  was  come  her  tale  to  tell, 

Told  of  a  strange  adventure  that  bctided 

Betwixt  the  Fox  and  the  Ape,  by  him  mi.sguided  ; 

The  which,  for  that  my  sense  it  greatly  pleased, 

All  were  my  spirit  heavy  and  dis-eased, 

I'll  write  in  terms  as  she  the  same  did  say, 

So  well  as  I  lier  words  remember  may. 

D 


50  SPENSER. 


No  Muse's  aid  me  needs  hereto  to  call ; 
Base  is  the  style,  and  matter  mean  withal. 

"Whilom"  (said  she)  "before  the  world  was  civil, 
The  Fox  and  the  Ape,  disliking  of  their  evil 
An5  iard  estate,  determined  to  seek 
Their  fortunes  far  abroad,  like  with  his  like  : 
For  both  were  crafty  and  unhappy-witted ; 
Two  fellows  might  nowhere  be  better  fitted. 

"The  Fox,  that  first  this  cause  of  grief  did  find, 
'Gan  first  thus  plain  his  case  with  words  unkind. 
'  Neighbour  Ape,  and  my  gossip  eke  beside, 
(Both  two  sure  bands  in  friendsjfiip  to  be  tied) 
To  whom  may  I  more  trustily  complain 
The  evil  plight  that  doth  me  sore  constrain, 
And  hope  thereof  to  find  due  remedy? 
Hear  then  my  pain  and  inward  agony. 
Thus  many  years  I  now  have  spent  and  worn 
In  mean  regard  and  basest  fortune's  scorn, 
Doing  my  country  service  as  I  might, — 
No  less,  I  dare  say,  than  the  proudest  wight ; 
And  still  I  hoped  to  be  up  advanced 
For  my  good  parts,  but  still  it  hath  mischanced. 
Now  therefore  that  no  longer  hope  I  see, 
But  froward  fortune  still  to  follow  me, 
And  losels  lifted  high  where  I  did  look, 
I  mean  to  turn  the  next  leaf  of  the  book ; 
Yet,  ere  that  any  way  I  do  betake, 
I  mean  my  gossip  privy  first  to  make.' 

"  '  Ah !  my  dear  gossip,'  (answered  then  the  Ape) 
'  Deeply  do  your  sad  words  my  wits  awhape, 
Both  for  because  your  grief  doth  great  appear, 
And  eke  because  myself  am  touched  near ; 
For  I  likewise  have  wasted  much  good  time, 
Still  waiting  to  preferment  up  to  climb, 
Whilst  others  always  have  before  me  stepped. 
And  from  my  beard  the  fat  away  have  swept, 
That  now  unto  despair  I  'gin  to  grow. 
And  mean  for  better  wind  about  to  throw ;  . 
Therefore,  to  me,  my  trusty  friend,  aread 
Thy  counsel :  two  is  better  than  one  head.' 

"  '  Certes  '  (said  he)   '  I  mean  me  to  disguise 
In  some  strange  habit,  after  uncouth  wise. 
Or  like  a  pilgrim  or  a  limiter, 
Or  like  a  gipsy  or  a  juggeler, 
And  so  to  wander  to  the  worlde's  end, 
To  seek  my  fortune  where  I  may  it  mend, — 
For  worse  than  that  I  have  I  cannot  meet. 
Wide  is  the  world,  I  wot,  and  every  street 
Is  full  of  fortunes  and  adventures  strange, 
Continually  subject  unto  change.  _ 


'    SPENSER.  51 

Say,  my  fair  brother,  now,  if  this  device 
Do  like  you,  or  may  you  to  look  entice.' 

"  '  Surely  '  (said  the  Ape)  '  it  likes  me  wondrous  well ; 
And,  would  ye  not  poor  fellowship  expel, 
Myself  would  offer  you  to  accompany 
In  this  adventure's  chanceful  jeopardy, — 
For  to  wex  old  at  home  in  idleness 
Is  disadventrous,  and  quite  fortuneless : 
Abroad,  where  change  is,  good  may  gotten  be.' 

' '  The  Fox  was  glad,  and  quickly  did  agree. 
So  both  resolved  the  morrow  next  ensuing, 
So  soon  as  day  appeared  to  people's  viewing, 
On  their  intended  journey  to  proceed  ; 
And  overnight  whatso  thereto  did  need 
Each  did  prepare  in  readiness  to  be. 
The  morrow  next,  so  soon  as  one  might  see 
Light  out  of  heaven's  windows  forth  to  look, 
Both  their  habiliments  unto  them  took. 
And  put  themselves  a'  God's  name  on  their  way; — 
Whenas  the  Ape,  beginning  well  to  weigh 
This  hard  adventure,  thus  began  to  advise. 

"  'Now  rede.  Sir  Reynold,  as  ye  be  right  wise. 
What  course  ye  ween  is  best  for  us  to  take, 
That  for  ourselves  we  may  a  living  make. 
Whether  shall  we  profess  some  trade  or  skill, 
Or  shall  we  vary  our  device  at  will, 
Even  as  new  occasion  appears  ? 
Or  shall  we  tie  ourselves  for  certain  years 
To  any  service,  or  to  any  place  ? 
For  it  behoves,  ere  that  into  the  race 
We  enter,  to  resolve  first  hereupon.' 

"  '  Now,  surely,  brother,'  (said  the  Fox  anon) 
'  Ye  have  this  matter  motioned  in  season ; 
For  everything  that  is  begun  with  reason 
Will  come  by  ready  means  unto  his  end, 
But  things  miscounsellcd  must  needs  miswend. 
Thus  therefore  I  advise  upon  the  case ; 
That  not  to  any  certain  trade  or  place. 
Nor  any  man,  we  should  ourselves  apply; 
For  why  should  he  that  is  at  liberty 
Make  himself  bond?     Sith  then  we  are  free-bom, 
Let  us  all  servile  base  subjection  scorn; 
And,  as  we  be  sons  of  the  world  so  wide, 
Let  us  our  father's  heritage  divide. 
And  challenge  to  ourselves  our  portions  due 
Of  all  the  patrimony,  which  a  few 
Now  hold  in  liuggcr-mugger  in  their  hand. 
And  all  the  rest  do  rob  of  good  and  land. 
For  now  a  few  liave  all,  and  all  have  nouglit, 
Vet  all  be  brctlircn  ylike  dearly  bought. 
There  is  no  riglit  in  this  partition, 


52  SPENSER. 


Ne  was  it  so  by  institution 

Ordained  first,  ne  by  the  law  of  Nature, 

But  that  she  gave  like  blessing  to  each  creature, 

As  well  of  worldly  livelode  as  of  life, 

That  there  might  be  no  difference  nor  strife, 

Nor  aught  called  mine  or  thine.     Thrice  happy  then 

Was  the  condition  of  mortal  men. 

That  was  the  Golden  Age  of  Saturn  old, 

But  this  might  better  be  the  World  of  Gold  ; 

For  without  gold  now  nothing  will  be  got. 

Therefore  (if  please  you)  this  shall  be  our  plot ; — 

We  will  not  be  of  any  occupation. 

Let  such  vile  vassals,   born  to  base  vocation. 

Drudge  in  the  world,  and  for  their  living  droyl, 

Which  have  no  wit  to  live  withouten  toil ; 

But  we  will  walk  about  the  world  at  pleasure, 

Like  two  free-men,  and  make  our  ease  our  treasure. 

Free-men  some  '  beggars '  call ;  but  they  be  free, 

And  they  which  call  them  so  more  beggars  be : 

For  they  do  swink  and  sweat  to  feed  the  other. 

Who  live  like  lords  of  that  which  they  do  gather, 

And  yet  do  never  thank  them  for  the  same, 

But  as  their  due  by  Nature  do  it  claim. 

Such  will  we  fashion  both  ourselves  to  be. 

Lords  of  the  world,  and  so  will  wander  free 

Whereso  us  listeth,  tmcontrolled  of  any. 

Hard  is  our  hap  if  we  (amongst  so  many) 

Light  not  on  some  thai  may  our  state  amend  ; 

Sildom  but  some  good  cometh  ere  the  end.' 

"Well  seemed  the  Ape  to  like  this  ordinance; 
Yet,  well  considering  of  the  circumstance, 
As  pausing  in  great  doubt  awhile  he  stayed, 
And  afterwards  with  grave  advisement  said;  — 
'  I  cannot,  my  lief  brother,  like  but  well 
The  purpose  of  the  complot  which  ye  tell ; 
For  well  I  wot  (compared  to  all  the  rest 
Of  each  degree)  that  beggars'  life  is  best. 
And  they  that  think  themselves  the  best  of  all 
Oft-timfes  to  begging  are  content  to  fall. 
But  this  I  wot  withal,  that  we  shall  run 
Into  great  danger,  like  to  be  undone. 
Wildly  to  wander  thus  in  tlie  world's  eye, 
Withouten  passport  or  guod  warranty; 
For  fear  lest  we  like  rogues  should  be  reputed. 
And  for  ear-marked  beasts  abroad  be  bruited. 
Therefore  I  rede  that  we  our  counsels  call 
How  to  prevent  this  mischief  ere  it  fall. 
And  how  we  may  with  most  security 
Beg  amongst  those  that  beggars  do  defy.' 

"  '  Right  well,  dear  gossip,  ye  advised  have, 
(Said  then  the  Fox),  'but  I  this  doubt  will  save] 


SPENSER.  53 


For,  ere  we  farther  pass,  I  will  devise 
A  passport  for  us  both  in  fittest  wise, 
And  by  the  names  of  soldiers  thus  protect, 
That  now  is  thought  a  civil  begging  sect. 
Be  you  the  soldier,  for  you  likest  are 
For  manly  semblance  and  small  skill  in  war ; 
I  will  but  wait  on  you,  and,  as  occasion 
Falls  out,  myself  fit  for  the  same  will  fashion.' 

"The  passport  ended,  both  they  forward  went, 
The  Ape  clad  soldier -like,  fit  for  the  intent, 
In  a  blue  jacket,  with  a  cross  of  red, 
And  many  slits,  as  if  that  he  had  shed 
Much  blood  through  many  wounds  therein  received, 
Which  had  the  use  of  his  right  arm  bereaved. 
Upon  his  head  an  old  Scotch  cap  he  wore, 
With  a  plume  feather  all  to  pieces  tore ; 
His  breeches  were  made  after  the  new  cut, 
Al  Partugese,  loose  like  an  empty  gut. 
And  his  hose  broken  high  above  the  heeling. 
And  his  shoes  beaten  out  with  travelling. 
But  neither  sword  nor  dagger  he  did  bear  ; 
Seems  that  no  foe's  revengement  he  did  fear  : 
Instead  of  them  a  handsome  bat  he  held, 
On  which  he  leaned,  as  one  far  in  eld. 
Shame  light  on  him  that  through  so  false  illusion 
Doth  turn  the  name  of  soldiers  to  abusion, 
And  that  which  is  the  noblest  mystery 
Brings  to  reproach  and  common  infamy  ! 

"  Long  they  thus  travelled,  yet  never  met 
Adventure  which  might  them  a-working  set ; 
Yet  many  ways  they  sought,  and  many  tried, 
Yet  for  their  purposes  none  fit  espied. 
At  last  they  chanced  to  meet  upon  the  way 
A  simple  husbandman  in  garments  grey  ; 
Yet,  though  his  vesture  were  but  mean  and  base, 
A  good  yeoman  he  was,  of  honest  place, 
And  more  for  thrift  did  care  thdn  for  gay  clothing  -. 
Gay  without  good  is  good  heart's  greatest  loathing. 
The  Fox,  him  spying,  bade  the  Ape  him  dight 
To  play  his  part,  for  lo  he  was  in  sight 
That  (if  he  erred  not)  should  them  entertain. 
And  yield  them  timely  profit  for  their  pain. 
Eftsoons  the  Ape  himself  'gan  to  uprear. 
And  on  his  shoulders  high  his  bat  to  bear, 
As  if  good  service  he  were  fit  to  do, 
But  tittle  thrift  for  him  he  did  it  to  ; 
And  stoutly  forward  he  his  steps  did  strain. 
That  like  a  handsome  swain  it  him  became.^ 

i  1  feel  greatly  tempted  to  set  the  rhyming  here  correct  by  writing 
"That  it  became  him  like  a  handsome  swain." 


54  SPENSEJ?. 

"  Whenas  they  nigh  approached,  that  good  man, 
Seeing  them  wander  loosely,  first  began 
To  enquire,  of  custom,  what  and  whence  they  were. 
To  whom  the  Ape  ;  '  I  am  a  Soldier, 
That  late  in  war  have  spent  my  dearest  blood, 
And  in  long  service  lost  both  limbs  and  good  ; 
And,  now  constrained  that  trade  to  over-give, 
I  dr'iven  am  to  seek  some  means  to  live  ; 
Which  might  it  you  in  pity  please  to  afford, 
I  would  be  ready  both  in  deed  and  word 
To  do  you  faithful  service  all  my  days. 
This  iron  world '  (that  same  he  weeping  says) 
'  Brings  down  the  stoutest  hearts  to  lowest  state  ; 
For  misery  doth  bravest  minds  abate. 
And  make  them  seek  for  that  they  wont  to  scorn. 
Of  fortune  and  of  hope  at  once  forlorn.' 

' '  The  honest  man,  that  heard  him  thus  complain, 
Was  grieved,  as  he  had  felt  part  of  his  pain, 
And,  well  disposed  him  some  relief  to  show, 
Asked  if  in  husbandry  he  aught  did  know  ; 
To  plough,  to  plant,  to  reap,  to  rake,  to  sow. 
To  hedge,  to  ditch,  to  thresh,  to  thatch,  to  mow, 
Or  to  what  labour  else  he  was  prepared — 
For  husband's  life  is  laborous  and  hard. 

"Whenas  the  Ape  him  heard  so  much  to  talk 
Of  labour,  tliat  did  from  his  liking  baulk, 
He  would  have  slipped  the  collar  handsomely. 
And  to  him  said  :  '  Good  Sir  !  full  glad  am  I 
To  take  what  pains  may  any  living  wight ; 
But  my  late-maimed  limbs  lack  wonted  might 
To  do  their  kindly  services  as  needeth. 
Scarce  this  right  hand  the  mouth  with  diet  feedeth, 
So  that  it  may  no  painful  work  endure, 
Ne  to  strong  labour  can  itself  inure. 
But,  if  that  any  other  place  you  have. 
Which  asks  small  pains,  but  thriftiness  to  save, 
Or  care  to  overlook,  or  thrust  to  gather, 
Ye  may  me  trust  as  your  own  ghostly  father.' 

"  With  that  the  husbandman  'gan  him  avise 
That  it  for  him  was  fittest  exercise 
Cattle  to  keep,  or  grounds  to  oversee  ; 
And  asked  him  if  he  could  willing  be 
To  keep  his  sheep,  or  to  attend  his  swine. 
Or  watch  his  mares,  or  take  his  charge  of  kine. 

"  'Gladly  '  (said  he)  '  whatever  such-like  pain 
Ye  put  on  me,  I  will  the  same  sustain. 
But  gladliest  I  of  your  fleecy  sheep 
(Might  it  you  please)  would  take  on  me  to  keep  ; 
For,  ere  that  unto  arms  I  me  betook, 
Unto  my  father's  sheep  I  used  to  look, 


SPENSER.  SS 

That  yet  the  skill  thereof  I  have  not  lost. 
Thereto  right  well  this  curdog,  by  my  cost,' 
(Meaning  the  Fox)  '  will  serve  my  sheep  to  gather, 
And  drive  to  follow  after  their  bellwether.' 

"  The  husbandman  was  meanly  well  content 
Trial  to  make  of  his  endeavourment ; 
And,  home  him  leading,  lent  to  him  the  charge 
Of  all  his  flock,  with  liberty  full  large, 
Giving  account  of  the  annual  increase 
goth  of  their  lambs  and  of  their  woolly  fleece. 

"  Thus  is  this  Ape  become  a  shepherd  swain. 
And  the  false  Fox  his  dog.    God  give  them  pain  ! 
For,  ere  the  year  have  half  his  course  outrun. 
And  do  return  from  whence  he  first  begtm. 
They  shall  him  make  an  ill  account  of  thrift. 

"Now  whenas  Time,  flying  with  winges  swift, 
Expired  had  the  term  that  these  two  javels 
Should  render  up  a  reckoning  of  their  travails 
Unto  their  master,  which  it  of  them  sought, 
Exceedingly  they  troubled  were  in  thought, — 
Ne  wist  what  answer  unto  him  to  frame, 
Ne  how  to  escape  great  punishment  or  shame 
For  their  false  treason  and  vile  thievery  ; 
For  not  a  lamb  of  all  their  flock's  supply 
Had  they  to  show,  but  ever  as  they  bred 
They  slew  them,  and  upon  their  fleshes  fed  ; 
For  that  disguised  dog  loved  blood  to  spill, 
And  drew  the  wicked  shepherd  to  his  will. 
So  'twixt  them  both  they  not  a  lambkin  left, 
And,  when  lambs  failed,  the  old  sheep's  lives  they  reft ; 
That  how  to  acquit  themselves  unto  their  lord 
They  were  in  doubt,  and  flatly  set  aboard. 
The  Fox  then  counselled  the  Ape  for  to  require 
Respite  till  morrow  to  answer  his  desire  ; 
For  time's  delay  new  hope  of  help  still  breeds. 
The  good  man  granted,  doubting  nought  their  deeds, 
And  bade  next  day  that  all  should  ready  be. 
But  they  more  subtle  meaning  had  than  he  ; 
For  the  next  morrow's  meed  they  closely  meant. 
For  fear  of  aftcrcLips,  for  to  prevent. 
And  that  same  evening,  when  all  shrouded  were 
In  careless  sleep,  they  without  care  or  fear 
Cruelly  fell  upon  their  flock  in  fold. 
And  of  them  slew  at  pleasure  what  they  wold  ; 
Of  which  whenas  they  feasted  had  their  fill, 
For  a  full  complement  of  all  their  ill. 
They  stole  away,  and  took  their  hasty  flight. 
Carried  in  clouds  of  all-concealing  night. 
So  was  the  husbandman  left  to  his  loss, 
And  they  unto  their  fortune's  change  to  toss. 


56  SPENSER. 


After  which  sort  they  wandered  long  while, 
Abusing  many  through  their  cloaked  guile, — 
That  at  the  last  they  'gan  to  be  descried 
Of  every  one,  and  all  their  sleights  espied. 
So  as  their  begging  now  them  failed  quite. 
For  none  would  give,  but  all  men  would  them  wite- 
Yet  would  they  take  no  pains  to  get  their  living, 
But  seek  some  other  way  to  gain  by  giving  ; 
Much  like  to  begging,  but  much  better  named, 
For  many  beg  which  are  thereof  asliamed. 

•"  And  nov/  the  Fox  had  gotten  him  a  gown. 
And  the  Ape  a  cassock  sidelong  hanging  down  ; 
For  they  their  occupation  meant  to  change. 
And  now  in  other  state  abroad  to  range  ; 
For,  since  their  soldier's  pass  no  better  sped. 
They  foiled  another,  as  for  clerks  book-red  : 
Who  passing  forth,  as  their  adventures  fell,. 
Through  many  haps  \\'hic]i  needs  not  here  to  tell,. 
At  length  chanced  with  a  formal  priest  to  meet, 
AVhom  they  in  civil  manner  first  did  greet. 
And  after  asked  an  alms  for  God's  dear  love. 
The  man  straightway  his  choler  up  did  move, 
And  with  reproachful  terms  'gan  them  revile 
For  folk)wing  that  trade  so  base  and  vile. 
And  asked  what  licence  or  what  pass  they  had. 

"*'  '  Ah  ! '  (said  the  Ape,  as  sighing  wondrous  sad) 
'It's  an  hard  case  when  men  of  good  deserving 
Must  either  driven  be  perforce  to  sterving, 
Or  asked  for  their  pass  by  every  squib 
That  list  at  will  them  to  revile  or  snib  ; 
And  yet  (God  Avot)  small  odds  I  often  see 
'Twixt  them  that  ask  and  them  that  asked  be. 
Nathless,  because  you  shall  not  us  misdeem. 
But  that  we  are  as  honest  as  we  seem. 
Ye  shall  our  passp>ort  at  your  pleasure  see, 
And  then  ye  will  (I  hope)  well  moved  be.' 

"  Which  when  the  priest  beheld,  he  viewed  it  near. 
As  if  therein  some  text  he  studying  were  ; 
But  little  else  (God  wot)  could  thereof  skill. 
For  read  he  could  not  evidence  nor  will, 
Ne  tell  a  written  word,  ne  write  a  letter, 
Ke  make  one  tittle  worse,  ne  make  one  better. 
Of  such  deep  learning  little  had  he  need, 
Ke  yet  of  Latin,  ne  of  Greek,  that  breed 
Doubts  'mongst  divines,  and  difference  of  texts. 
From  whence  arise  diversity  of  sects. 
And  hateful  heresies,  of  God  abhorred. 
But  this  good  Sir  did  follow  the  plain  word, 
Ne  meddled  with  their  controversies  vain  ; 
All  his  care  was  his  service  well  to  fain,. 


SPENSEI?.  tf 


And  to  read  homilies  on  holy-days  ; 

When  that  was  done,  he  might  attend  his  plays ; 

An  easy  life,  and  fit  high  God  to  please. 

He,  having  over-looked  their  pass  at  ease, 

'Gan  at  the  length  them  to  rebuke  again, 

That  no  good  trade  of  life  did  entertain. 

But  lost  their  time  in  wandering  loose  abroad, — 

Seeing  the  world,  in  which  they  bootless  bode. 

Had  %vays  enow  for  all  therein  to  live. 

Such  grace  did  God  unto  his  creatures  give. 

"  Said  then  the  Fox,  '  Who  hath  the  world  not  trieci 
From  the  right  way  full  eath  may  wander  wide. 
We  are  but  novices  new  come  abroad  ; 
We  have  not  yet  the  tract  of  any  trod, 
Nor  on  us  taken  any  state  of  life. 
But  ready  are  of  any  to  make  prief. 

Therefore  might  please  you,  which  the  v^orld  have  proved. 
Us  to  devise,  which  forth  but  lately  moved. 
Of  some  good  course  that  we  might  undertake. 
Ye  shall  for  ever  us  your  bondmen  make. ' 

"  The  priest  'gan  wex  half  proud  to  be  so  prayed^ 
And  thereby  willing  to  afford  them  aid. 
'  It  seems '  (said  he)  '  right  well  that  ye  be  clerks^ 
Both  by  your  witty  words  and  by  your  works. 
Is  not  that  name  enough  to  make  a  living 
To  him  that  hath  a  whit  of  Nature's  giving  ? 

How  many  honest  men  see  ye  arise 

Daily  thereby,  and  grow  to  goodly  prize- 
To  deans,  to  archdeacons,  to  commissaries, 

To  lords,  to  principals,  to  prebendaries  I 

All  jolly  prelates,  worthy  rule  to  bear, 

Whoever  them  envy  ;  yet  spite  bites  near. 

Why  should  ye  doubt  then  but  that  ye  likewise 

Might  unto  some  of  those  in  time  arise  ? 

In  the  meantime  to  live  in  good  estate. 

Loving  that  love,  and  hating  those  that  hate. 

Being  some  honest  curate  or  some  \dcar. 

Content  with  little  in  condition  sicker.' 

'"  Ah  !  but'  (said  the  Ape)  'the  charge  is  wondrous  great 

To  feed  men's  souls,  and  hath  an  heavy  threat.' 
"  'To  feed  men's  souls'  (quoth  he)  'is  not  in  man. 

For  they  must  feed  themselves,  do  what  we  can  ; 

We  are  but  charged  to  lay  the  meat  before  ; 

Eat  they  that  list,  we  need  to  do  no  more. 

But  God  it  is  that  feeds  them  with  his  grace, 

The  bread  of  life  poured  down  from  heavenly  place 

Therefore  said  he  that  with  the  budding  rod 

Did  i-ule  the  Jews,  *  All  shall  be  taught  of  God.' 

That  same  hath  Jesus  Christ  now  to  him  raught. 

By  whom  the  flock  is  rightly  fed  and  taught ; 


SS  SPENSER. 


He  is  the  Shepherd,  and  the  Priest  is  he  ; 

We  but  his  shepherd  swains  oidained  to  be. 

Therefore  herewith  do  not  yourself  dismay  ; 

Ne  is  the  pains  so  great  but  bear  ye  may  ; 

For  not  so  great  as  it  was  wont  of  yore 

It's  nowadays,  ne  half  so  strait  and  sore^. 

They  whilom  used  duly  every  day 

Their  service  and  their  holy  things  to  say 

At  morn  and  even,  besides  their  anthems  sweet, 

Their  penny  masses,  and  their  complynes  meet. 

Their  dirges,  and  their  trentals,  and  their  shrifts, 

Their  memories,  their  singings,  and  their  gifts. 

Now  all  these  needless  works  are  laid  away  ; 

Now  once  a  week,  upon  the  sabbath-day. 

It  is  enough  to  do  our  small  devotion, 

And  then  to  follow  any  merry  motion. 

Ne  are  we  tied  to  fast  but  when  we  list, 

Ne  to  wear  gai-ments  base,  of  woollen  twist, 

But  with  the  finest  silks  us  to  array. 

That  before  God  we  may  appear  more  gay, 

Resembling  Aaron's  glory  in  his  place. 

For  far  unfit  it  is  that  persons  base 

Should  with  vile  clothes  approach  God's  majesty, 

Whom  no  uncleanness  may  approachen  nigh ; — 

Or  that  all  men  which  any  master  serve 

Good  garments  for  their  service  should  deserve ; 

But  he  that  serves  the  Lord  of  Hosts  most  high. 

And  that  in  highest  place  to  approach  him  nigh. 

And  all  the  people's  prayers  to  present 

Before  his  throne,  as  on  ambassage  sent 

Both  to  and  fro,  should  not  deserve  to  wear 

A  garment  better  than  of  wool  or  hair. 

Beside,  we  may  have  lying  by  our  sides 

Our  lovely  lasses,  or  bright-shining  brides : 

We  be  not  tied  to  wilful  chastity. 

But  have  the  gospel  of  free  liberty.' 

"By  that  he  ended  had  his  ghostly  sermon, 
The  Fox  was  well  induced  to  be  a  parson. 
And  of  the  priest  eftsoons  'gan  to  enquii^e 
How  to  a  benefice  he  miglit  aspire. 

"  'Marry,  there'  {said  the  priest)  'is  art  indeed 
Much  good  deep  learning  one  thereout  may  rede  : 
For  that  the  groundwork  is  and  end  of  all, 
How  to  obtain  a  beneficial. 

First,  therefore,  when  ye  have  in  handsome  wise 
Yourselves  attired,  as  you  can  devise, 
Then  to  some  noble  man  yourself  apply, 
Or  other  great  one  in  the  worlde's  eye, 
That  hath  a  zealous  disposition 
To  God,  and  so  to  his  religion. 


SPENSER.  59 


There  must  thou  fashion  eke  a  goodly  zeal, 

Such  as  no  carpers  may  contrayr  reveal, 

For  each  thing  feigned  ought  more  wary  be. 

There  thou  must  walk  in  sober  gi-avity, 

And  seem  as  saint-like  as  Saint  Radegund  ; 

Fast  much,  pray  oft,  look  lowly  on  the  ground, 

And  unto  every  one  do  court'sy  meek. 

These  looks  (nought  saying)  do  a  benefice  seek  ; 

And  be  thou  sure  one  not  to  lack  ere  long. 

But  if  thee  list  unto  the  Court  to  throng. 

And  there  to  hunt  after  the  hoped  prey, 
.  Then  must  thou  thee  dispose  another  way ; 

For  there  thou  needs  must  learn  to  laugh,  to  lie. 

To  face,  to  forge,  to  scoff,  to  company, 

To  crouch,  to  please,  to  be  a  beetle-stock 

Of  thy  great  master's  will,  to  scorn,  to  mock. 

So  mayst  thou  chance  mock  out  a  benefice, — 

Unless  thou  canst  one  conjure  by  device, 
Or  cast  a  fiigure  for  a  bishopric ; 

And,  if  one  could,  it  were  but  a  school-trick. 

These  be  the  ways  by  which  without  reward 

Livings  in  courts  be  gotten,  though  full  hard ; 

For  nothing  there  is  done  without  a  fee. 

The  courtier  needs  must  recompensed  be 

With  a  benevolence,  or  have  in  gage 

The  primitias  of  your  parsonage : 

Scarce  can  a  bishopric  forpass  them  by. 

But  that  it  must  be  gelt  in  privity. 

Do  not  thou,  therefore,  seek  a  living  there. 

But  of  more  private  persons  seek  elsewhere 

Whereas  thou  mayst  compound  a  better  penny  ; 

Ne  let  thy  learning  questioned  be  of  any  : 

For  some  good  gentleman  that  hath  the  right 

Unto  his  church  for  to  present  a  wight 

Will  cope  with  thee  in  reasonable  wise. 

That  if  the  living  yearly  do  arise 

To  forty  pound,  that  then  his  youngest  son 

Shall  twenty  have,  and  twenty  thou  hast  won. 

Thou  hast  it  won,  for  it  is  of  frank  gift, 

And  he  will  care  for  all  the  rest  to  shift. 

Both  that  the  bishop  may  admit  of  thee. 

And  that  therein  thou  mayst  maintained  be. 

This  is  the  way  for  one  that  is  unlearned 

Living  to  get,  and  not  to  be  discerned. 

But  they  that  are  great  clerks  have  nearer  ways. 

For  learning-sake  to  living  them  to  raise  : 

Yet  many  eke  of  them  (God  wot)  are  driven 

To  accept  a  benefice  in  pieces  riven. 

How  sayst  thou,  friend,  have  I  not  well  discoursed 

Upon  this  common-place,— though  plain,  not  wor^t  ? 


•6o  SPENSER. 


Better  a  short  tale  than  a  bad  long  shriving ; 
Needs  any  more  to  learn  to  get  a  living?' 

'"Now  sure,  and  by  my  hallidom,'  (quoth  he) 
'  Ye  a  great  master  are  in  your  degree  ; 
Great  thanks  I  yield  you  for  your  discipline, 
And  do  not  doubt  but  duly  to  incline 
My  wits  thereto,  as  ye  shall  shortly  hear.' 

"  The  priest  him  wished  good  speed,  and  well  to  fare ; 
So  parted  they  as  either's  way  them  led. 
But  the  Ape  and  Fox  ere  long  so  well  them  sped. 
Through  the  priest's  wholesome  counsel  lately  taught, 
And  through  their  own  fair  handling  wisely  wrought, 
That  they  a  benefice  'twixt  them  obtained  ; 
And  crafty  Reynold  was  a  priest  ordained, 
And  the  Ape  his  Parish- Clerk  procured  to  be. 
Then  made  they  revel-rout  and  goodly  glee. 
But,  ere  long  time  had  passed,  they  so  ill 
Did  order  their  affairs  that  the  evil-will 
Of  all  their  parish'ners  they  had  constrained  ; 
Who  to  the  Ordinary  of  them  complained. 
How  foully  they  their  offices  abused, 
And  them  of  crimes  and  heresies  accused, 
That  Pursuivants  he  often  for  them  sent. 
But  they,  neglecting  his  commandement. 
So  long  persisted  obstinate  and  bold. 
Till  at  the  length  he  published  to  hold 
A  Visitation,  and  them  cited  thether  ; 
Then  was  high  time  their  wits  about  to  gether. 
What  did  they  then  but  made  a  composition 
With  their  next  neighbour  priest  for  light  condition? 
To  whom  their  living  they  resigned  quite 
For  a  few  pence,  and  ran  away  by  night. 

"  So,  passing  through  the  country  in  disguise. 
They  fled  far  off,  where  none  might  them  surprise  ; 
And  after  that  long  strayed  here  and  there. 
Through  every  field  and  forest  far  and  near, — 
Yet  never  found  occasion  for  their  turn. 
But,  almost  starved,  did  much  lament  and  mourn. 
At  last  they  chanced  to  meet  upon  the  way 
The  Mule  all  decked  in  goodly  rich  array. 
With  bells  and  bosses  that  full  loudly  rung, 
And  costly  trappings  that  to  ground  down  hung. 
Lowly  they  him  saluted  in  meek  wise  ; 
But  he  through  pride  and  fatness  'gan  despise 
Their  meanness,  scarce  vouchsafed  them  to  requite  : 
Whereat  the  Fox,  deep  growling  in  his  sprite. 
Said  :   '  Ah  !  Sir  Mule,  now  blessed  be  the  day 
That  I  see  you  so  goodly  and  so  gay 
In  your  attires,  and  eke  your  silken  hide 
Filled  with  round  flesh,  that  every  bone  doth  hide. 


■  ir   liri        M^M   !■■!      ■    ■!    I      I    I      ■  I     II  I  . »■ — ■      ■      ■  H        ■  I  I  i  ■  11  ■ 

Seems  that  in  fruitful  pastures  ye  do  live, 
Or  Fortune  doth  you  secret  favour  give.' 

"  '  Foolish  Fox'  (said  the  Mule)  'thy  wretched  need 
Praises  the  thing  that  doth  thy  sorrow  breed  ; 
For  well  I  ween  thou  canst  not  but  envy 
My  wealth,  compared  to  thine  own  misery, 
That  art  so  lean  and  meagre  waxen  late 
That  scarce  thy  legs  uphold  thy  feeble  gait.' 

"  '  Ay  me  ! '  (said  then  the  Fox)  '  whom  evil  hap 
Unworthy  in  such  wretchedness  doth  wrap, 
And  makes  the  scorn  of  other  beasts  to  be  ! 
But  rede,  fair  Sir,  of  grace,  from  whence  come  ye  ? 
Or  what  of  tidings  you  abroad  do  hear  ? 
News  may  perhaps  some  good  unweeting  bear. ' 

"  '  From  royal  court  I  lately  came '  (said  he) 
Where  all  the  bravery  that  eye  may  see, 
And  all  the  happiness  that  heart  desire, 
Is  to  be  found.     He  nothing  can  admire 
That  hath  not  seen  that  heaven's  portraiture. 
But  tidings  there  is  none,  1  you  assure, 
Save  that  which  common  is,  and  known  to  all, — 
That  courtiers,  as  the  tide,  do  rise  and  fall.' 

" '  But  tell  us '  (said  the  Ape),  '  we  do  you  pray. 
Who  now  in  court  doth  bear  the  greatest  sway. 
That,  if  such  fortune  do  to  us  befall. 
We  may  seek  favour  of  the  best  of  all.' 

'" Marry'  (said  he)  ' the  highest  now  in  grace 
Be  the  wild  beasts  that  swiftest  are  in  chace  ; 
For  in  their  speedy  course  and  nimble  flight 
The  Lion  now  doth  take  the  most  delight, 
But  chiefly  joys  on  foot  them  to  behold. 
Enchased  with  chain  and  circulet  of  gold. 
So  wild  a  beast  so  tame  ytaught  to  be. 
And  buxom  to  his  bands,  is  joy  to  see  ; 
So  well  his  golden  circlet  him  beseemeth. 
But  his  late  chain  his  liege  unmeet  esteemeth, 
For  so  brave  beasts  he  loveth  best  to  see 
In  the  wild  forest  ranging  fresh  and  free. 
Therefore,  if  fortune  thee  in  court  to  live. 
In  case  thou  ever  there  wilt  hope  to  thrive, 
To  some  of  these  thou  must  thyself  apply  ; 
Else,  as  a  thistle-down  in  the  air  doth  fly. 
So  vainly  shalt  thou  to  and  fro  be  tossed. 
And  lose  thy  labour  and  thy  fruitless  cost. 
And  yet  full  few  that  follow  them,  I  see. 
For  virtue's  bare  regard  advanced  be  ; 
But  either  for  some  gainful  benefit, 
Or  that  they  may  for  their  own  turns  be  fit. 
Nathless,  perhaps,  ye  tilings  may  liandle  so 
That  ye  may  better  thrive  than  thousands  moe.' 


6i  SPENSER. 


"  '  But'  (said  the  Ape)  'how  shall  we  first  come  in, 
That  after  we  may  favour  seek  to  win?' 

" '  How  else  '  (said  he)  '  but  with  a  good  bold  face, 
And  with  big  words,  and  with  a  stately  pace  ? 
That  men  may  think  of  you  in  general 
That  to  be  in  you  which  is  not  at  all  ; 
For  not  by  that  which  is  the  world  now  deemeth 
(As  it  was  wont),  but  by  that  same  that  seemeth, 
Ne  do  I  doubt  but  that  ye  well  can  fashion 
Yourselves  thereto  according  to  occasion. 
So  fare  ye  well,  good  courtiers  may  ye  be.' 
So,  proudly  neighing,  from  them  parted  he. 

"  Then  'gan  this  crafty  couple  to  devise 
How  for  the  court  themselves  they  might  aguize  } 
For  thither  they  themselves  meant  to  address, 
In  hope  to  find  their  happier  success. 
So  well  they  shifted  that  the  Ape  anon 
Himself  had  clothed  like  a  gentleman. 
And  the  sly  Fox  as  like  to  be  his  groom, — 
That  to  the  court  in  speedy  sort  they  come  ; 
Where  the  fond  Ape,  himself  uprearing  high 
Upon  his  tiptoes,  stalketh  stately  by, 
As  if  he  were  some  great  Magnifico, 
And  boldly  doth  amongst  the  boldest  go  ; 
And  his'  man  Reynold  with  fine  counterfesance 
Supports  his  credit  and  his  countenance. 
Then  'gan  the  courtiers  gaze  on  every  side, 
And  stare  on  him  with  big  looks  basen  wide, 
Wondering  what  mister  wight  he  was,  and  whence  ; 
For  he  was  clad  in  strange  accoutrements, 
Fashioned  with  quaint  devices,  never  seen 
In  court  before,  yet  there  all  fashions  been. 
Yet  he  them  in  newfangleness  did  pass. 
But  his  behaviour  altogether  was 
A/Ia  turchesca,  much  the  more  admired, 
And  his  looks  lofty,  as  if  he  aspired 
To  dignity,  and  'sdained  the  low  degree ; 
That  all  which  did  such  strangeness  in  him  see 
By  secret  means  'gan  of  his  state  enquire, 
And  privily  his  servant  thereto  hire ; 
Who,  throughly  armed  against  such  coverture, 
Reported  unto  all  that  he  was  sure 
A  noble  gentleman  of  high  regard. 
Which  through  the  world  had  with  long  travel  fared, 
And  seen  the  manners  of  all  beasts  on  ground, 
Now  here  arrived,  to  see  if  like  he  found. 

"  Thus  did  the  Ape  at  first  him  credit  gain; 
Which  afterwards  he  wisely  did  maintain 
With  gallant  shovv,  and  daily  more  augment 
Through  his  fine  feats  and  courtly  complement. 


SPENSER.  63 


For  he  could  play,  and  dance,  and  vaute,  and  spring, 
And  all  that  else  pertanis  to  revelling, 
Only  through  kindly  aptness  of  his  joints. 
Besides,  he  could  do  many  other  points. 
The  which  in  court  him  served  to  good  stead ; 
For  he  'mongst  ladies  could  their  fortunes  read 
Out  of  their  hands,  and  merry  leasings  tell, 
And  juggle  finely,  that  became  him  well. 
But  he  so  light  was  at  legerdemain 
That  what  he  touched  came  not  to  light  again. 
Yet  would  he  laugh  it  out,  and  proudly  look. 
And  tell  them  that  they  greatly  him  mistook. 
So  would  he  scoff  them  out  with  mockery, 
For  he  therein  had  great  felicity, 
And  with  sharp  quips  joyed  others  to  deface, 
Thinking  that  their  disgracing  did  him  grace. 
So,  whilst  that  other  like  vain  wits  he  pleased. 
And  made  to  laugh,  his  heart  was  greatly  eased. 
"  But  the  right  gentle  mind  would  bite  his  lip. 
To  hear  the  javel  so  good  men  to  nip ; 
For  though  the  vulgar  yield  an  open  ear, 
And  common  courtiers  love  to  gibe  and  flear 
At  every  thing  which  they  hear  spoken  ill. 
And  the  best  speeches  with  ill-meaning  spill. 
Yet  the  brave  courtier,  in  whose  beauteous  thought 
Regard  of  honour  harbours  more  than  aught, 
Doth  loathe  such  base  condition,  to  backbite 
Any's  good  name  for  envy  or  despite. 
He  stands  on  terms  of  honourable  mind, 
Ne  will  be  carried  with  the  common  wind 
Of  court's  inconstant  mutability, 
Ne  after  every  tattling  fable  fly ; 
But  hears  and  sees  the  follies  of  the  rest, 
And  thereof  gathers  for  himself  the  best. 
He  will  not  creep,  nor  crouch  with  feigned  face, 
But  walks  upright 'with  comely  stedfast  pace. 
And  unto  all  doth  yield  due  courtesy, — 
But  not  with  kissed  hand  below  the  knee, 
As  that  same  apish  crew  is  wont  to  do. 
For  he  disdains  himself  to  embase  thereto. 
He  hates  foul  leasings  and  vile  flattery, 
Two  filthy  blots  in  noble  gentery; 
And  loathful  idleness  he  doth  detest, 
The  canker- woim  of  every  gentle  breast; 
The  which  to  banish  with  fair  exercise 
Of  knightly  feats  he  daily  doth  devise ; 
Now  menaging  the  mouths  of  stubborn  steeds, 
Now  practising  the  proof  of  warlike  deeds; 
Now  his  tjright  arms  assaying,  now  his  spear, 
Now  the  nigh-aimed  ring  away  to  bear. 


64  SPENSEJ^. 


At  other  times  he  casts  to  sue  the  chace 

Of  swift  wild  beasts,  or  run  on  foot  a  race, 

To  enlarge  his  breatli  (large  breath  in  arms  most  needful), 

Or  else  by  wrestling  to  wex  strong  and  heedful ; 

Or  his  stiff  arms  to  stretch  with  yewen  bow, 

And  manly  legs,  still  passing  to  and  fro ; 

Without  a  gowned  beast  him  fast  beside, 

A  vain  ensample  of  the  Persian  pride. 

Who,  after  he  had  won  the  Assyrian  foe, 

Did  ever  after  scorn  on  foot  to  go. 

Thus  when  this  courtly  gentleman  with  toil 

Himself  hath  wearied,  he  doth  recoil 

Unto  his  rest,  and  there  with  sweet  delight 

Of  music's  skill  revives  his  toiled  sprite; 

Or  else  with  loves- and  ladies'  gentle  sports. 

The  joy  of  youth,  himself  he  recomforts. 

Or,  lastly,  when  the  body  list  to  pause, 

His  mind  unto  the  Muses  he  withdraws; 

Sweet  Lady  Muses!    ladies  of  delight. 

Delights  of  life,  and  ornaments  of  light. 

With  whom  he  close  confers  with  wise  discourse 

Of  Nature's  works,   of  heaven's  continual  course, 

Of  foreign  lands,  of  people  different. 

Of  kingdoms'  change,  of  diverse  government, 

Of  dreadful  battles  of  renowned  knights, 

With  which  he  kindleth  his  ambitious  sprites 

To  like  desire  and  praise  of  noble  fame, 

The  only  upshot  whereto  he  doth  aim. 

For  all  his  mind  on  honour  fixfed  is. 

To  which  he  levels  all  his  purposes ; 

And  in  his  prince's  service  spends  his  days, 

Not  so  much  for  to  gain,  or  for  to  raise 

Himself  to  high  degree,  as  for  his  grace. 

And  in  his  liking  to  win  worthy  place. 

Through  due  deserts  and  comely  carriage, 

In  whatso  please  employ  his  personage. 

That  may  be  matter  meet  to  gain  him  praise. 

For  he  is  fit  to  use  in  all  assays, 

Whether  for  arms  and  warlike  amenance, 

Or  else  for  wise  and  civil  governance ; 

For  lie  is  practised  \vell  in  policy. 

And  thereto  doth  his  courting  most  apply; 

To  learn  the  enterdeal  of  princes  strange. 

To  mark  the  intent  of  counsels,  and  the  change 

Of  states,  and  eke  of  private  men  somewhile, 

Supplanted  by  fine  falsehood  and  fair  guile  ; 

Of  all  the  which  he  gathereth  what  is  fit 

To  enrich  the  storehouse  of  his  powerful  wit. 

Which  through  wise  speeches  and  grave  conference 

He  daily  ekes,  and  Ijring^  to  excellence. 


SPENSER.  6s 


* '  Such  is  the  rightful  courtier  in  his  kind ; 
But  unto  such  the  Ape  lent  not  his  mind. 
Such  were  for  him  no  fit  companions  ; 
Such  would  discry  his  lewd  conditions. 
But  the  young  lusty  gallants  he  did  chose 
To  follow,  meet  to  whom  he  might  disclose 
His  witless  pleasance  and  ill-pleasing  vein. 
A  thousand  ways  he  them  could  entertain, 
With  all  the  thriftless  games  that  may  be  found. 
With  mumming  and  with  masking  all  around, 
With  dice,  with  cards,  with  halliards  far  unfit, 
With  shuttlecocks,  mis-seeming  manly  wit, 
With  courtesans  and  costly  riotize. 
Whereof  still  somewhat  to  his  share  did  rise. 
Ne,  them  to  pleasure,  would  he  sometimes  scorn 
A  pandar's  coat  (so  basely  was  he  born). 
Thereto  he  could  fine  loving-verses  frame. 
And  play  the  poet  oft.      But  ah  !  for  shame. 
Let  not  sweet  poets'  praise,  whose  only  pride 
Is  virtue  to  advance,  and  vice  deride, 
Be  with  the  work  of  losels'  wit  defamed, 
Ne  let  sucli  verses  poetry  be  named. 
Yet  he  the  name  on  him  would  rashly  take, 
Maugre  the  sacred  Muses,  and  it  make 
A  servant  to  the  vile  affection 
Of  such  as  he  depended  most  upon, 
And  witli  the  sugary  sweet  thereof  allure 
Chaste  ladies'  ears  to  fantasies  impure. - 
To  such  delights  the  noble  wits  he  led 
Which  him  relieved,  and  their  vain  humours  fed 
With  fruitless  follies  and  unsound  delights. 
But,  if  perhaps  into  their  noble  sprites 
Desire  of  honour  or  brave  thought  of  arms 
Did  ever  creep,  then  with  his  wicked  charms 
And  strong  conceits  he  would  it  drive  away, 
Ne  suffer  it  to  house  there  half  a  day. 
And,  whenso  love  of  letters  did  inspire 
Their  gentle  wits,  and  kindle  wise  desire, 
That  chiefly  doth  each  noble  mind  adorn. 
Then  lie  would  scoff  at  learning,  and  eke  scorn 
The  sectaries  thereof,  as  people  base, 
And  simple  men,  which  never  came  in  place 
Of  world's  affairs,  but,  in  dark  corners  mewed, 
Muttered  of  matters  as  their  books  them  shewed, 
Ne  other  knowledge  ever  did  attain. 
But  with  their  gowns  their  gravity  maintain. 
From  them  he  would  his  impudent  lewd  speech 
Against  God's  holy  ministers  oft  reach, 
And  mock  divines  and  their  profession  : 
What  else  then  did  he  by  progression 


65  SPENSER. 

But  mock  liigh  God  himself,  whom  they  profess  ? 

But  what  cared  he  for  God  or  godliness? 

All  his  care  \\as  himself  how  to  advance. 

And  to  uphold  his  courtly  countenance 

By  all  the  cunning  means  he  could  devise. 

Were  it  by  honest  ways  or  otherwise, 

He  made  small  choice ;   yet  sure  his  honesty 

Got  him  small  gains,  but  shameless  flattery. 

And  filthy  brocage,   and  unseemly  shifts, 

And  borrow  base,  and  some  good  ladies'  gifts. 

But  the  best  help  which  chiefly  him  sustained 

Was  his  man  Reynold's  purchase  which  he  gained; 

For  he  was  schooled  by  kind  in  all  the  skill 

Of  close  conveyance,  and  each  practice  ill 

Of  cosenage  and  cleanly  knavery, 

AVhich  oft  maintained  his  master's  bravery. 

Besides,  he  used  another  slippery  sleight. 

In  taking  on  himself  in  common  sight 

False  personages,  fit  for  every  stead. 

With  which  he  thousands  cleanly  cosened ; 

Now  like  a  merchant,  merchants  to  deceive. 

With  whom  his  credit  he  did  often  leave 

In  gage  for  his  gay  master's  hopeless  debt; 

Now  like  a  lawyer,  when  he  land  would  let. 

Or  sell  fee-simples  in  his  master's  name, 

Which  he  had  never,  nor  aught  like  the  same. 

Then  would  he  be  a  broker,  and  draw  in 

Both  wares  and  money,  by  exchange  to  win. 

Then  would  he  seem  a  farmer,  that  would  sell 

Bargains  of  woods  which  he  did  lately  fell. 

Or  corn,  or  cattle,  or  such  other  ware, 

Thereby  to  cosen  men  not  well  aware. 

Of  all  the  which  there  came  a  secret  fee 

To  the  Ape,  that  he  his  countenance  might  be. 

Besides  all  this,  he  used  oft  to  beguile 

Poor  suitors  that  in  court  did  haunt  somewhile; 

For  he  would  learn  their  business  secretly, 

And  then  inform  his  master  hastily. 

That  he  by  means  might  cast  them  to  prevent, 

And  beg  the  suit  the  which  the  other  meant. 

Or  otherwise,  false  Reynold  would  abuse 

The  simple  suitor,  and  wish  him  to  choose 

His  master,  being  one  of  gi-eat  regard 

In  court,  to  compass  any  suit  not  hard. 

In  case  his  pains  were  recompensed  with  reason. 

So  would  he  work  the  silly  man  by  treason 

To  buy  his  master's  frivolous  good-will. 

That  bad  not  power  to  do  him  good  or  ill. 

"So  pitiful  a  thing  is  suitor's  state  ! 
Most  miserable  man  !  whom  wicked  Fate 


SPENSER.  67 


Had  brought  to  court  to  sue  for  had-I-wist, 
That  few  have  found,  and  many  one  hath  missed  ! 
Full  little  knowest  thou,  that  hast  not  tried, 
"What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide; 
To  lose  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent, 
To  waste  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent ; 
To  speed  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to-morrow  ; 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow  j 
To  have  thy  prince's  grace,  yet  want  her  peers' ; 
To  have  thy  asking,  yet  wait  many  years ; 
To  fret  thy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  cares ; 
To  eat  thy  heart  through  comfortless  despairs ; 
To  fa^vn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  run, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undone. 
Unhappy  wight,  bom  to  disastrous  end. 
That  doth  his  life  in  so  long  tendance  spend  ! 
Whoever  leaves  sweet  home,  where  mean  estate 
In  safe  assurance,  without  strife  or  hate. 
Finds  all  things  needful  for  contentment  meek, 
And  will  to  court  for  shadows  vain  to  seek. 
Or  hope  to  gain,  himself  a  daw  will  try ; 
That  curse  God  send  unto  mine  enemy  1 
For  none  but  such  as  this  bold  Ape  unblest 
Can  ever  thrive  in  that  unlucky  quest, — 
Or  such  as  have  a  Reynold  to  his  man. 
That  by  his  shifts  his  master  furnish  can. 

"BuFyet  this  Fox  could  not  so  closely  hide 
His  crafty  feats  but  that  they  were  descried 
At  length  by  such  as  sate  in  Justice'  seat  ; 
Who  for  the  same  him  foully  did  intreat, 
And,  having  worthily  him  punished, 
Out  of  the  court  for  ever  banished. 
And  now  the  Ape,  wanting  his  huckster-man. 
That  wont  provide  his  necessaries,  'gan 
To  grow  into  great  lack,  ne  could  uphold 
His  countenance  in  those  his  garments  old  ; 
Ne  new  ones  could  he  easily  provide, 
Though  all  men  him  uncased  'gan  deride, 
Like  as  a  puppet  placed  in  a  play. 
Whose  part,  once  past,  all  men  bid  take  away  ; — 
So  that  he  driven  was  to  great  distress. 
And  shortly  brought  to  hopeless  wretchedness. 
Then,  closely  as  he  might,  he  cast  to  leave 
The  court,  not  asking  any  pass  or  leave  ; 
But  ran  away  in  liis  rent  rags  by  night, — 
Ne  never  stayed  in  place,  ne  spake  to  wight, 
Till  that  the  Fox  his  copesmate  he  had  found  ; 
To  whom  complaining  his  unhappy  stound. 
At  last  again  with  him  in  travel  joined, 
And  with  hnn  fared,  some  better  chance  to  find. 


68  SPENSER. 

So  in  the  world  long  time  they  wandered, 

And  mickle  want  and  hardness  suffered, 

That  them  repented  much  so  fooHshly 

To  come  so  far  to  seek  for  misery, 

And  leave  the  sweetness  of  contented  home, 

Though  eatmg  hips,  and  drinking  watery  foam. 

"  Thus  as  they  them  complained  to  and  fro. 
Whilst  through  the  forest  reckless  they  did  go, 
Lo  where  they  spied  how  in  a  gloomy  glade 
The  Lion  sleeping  lay  in  secret  shade  ; 
His  crown  and  sceptre  lying  him  beside, 
And  having  doffed  for  heat  his  dreadful  hide. 
Which  when  they  saw,  the  Ape  was  sore  afraid. 
And  would  have  fled,  with  terror  all  dismayed  j 
But  him  the  Fox  with  hardy  words  did  stay, 
And  bad  him  put  all  cowardice  away, 
For  now  was  time  (if  ever  they  would  hope) 
To  aim  their  counsels  to  the  fairest  scope, 
And  them  for  ever  highly  to  advance. 
In  case  the  good  which  their  own  happy  chance 
Them  freely  offered  they  would  wisely  take. 

"  Scarce  could  the  Ape  yet  speak,  so  did  he  quake  ; 
Yet,  as  he  could,  he  asked  how  good  might  grow- 
Where  nought  but  dread  and  death  do  seem  in  show. 

"'Now'  (said  he)   'whiles  the  Lion  sleepeth  sound. 
May  we  his  crown  and  mace  take  from  the  ground, 
And  eke  his  skin,  the  terror  of  the  wood. 
Wherewith  we  may  ourselves  (if  we  think  good) 
Make  kings  of  beasts,   and  lords  of  forests  all 
Subject  unto  that  power  imperial.' 

"  '  Ah  !  but '  (said  the  Ape)  '  who  is  so  bold  a  wretch 
That  dare  his  hardy  hand  to  those  outstretch, 
Whenas  he  knows  his  meed,  if  he  be  spied. 
To  be  a  thousand  deaths,  and  shame  beside?' 

"'  Fond  Ape'  (said  then  the  Fox)  '  into  whose  breast 
Never  crept  thought  of  honour  nor  brave  geste, 
Who  will  not  venture  life  a  king  to  be, 
And  rather  rule  and  reign  in  sovereign  see 
Than  dwell  in  dust  inglorious  and  base, 
Where  none  shall  name  the  number  of  his  place  ! 
One  joyous  hour  in  blissful  happiness 
I  choose  before  a  life  of  wretchedness. 
Be  therefore  counselled  herein  by  me. 
And  shake  off  this  vile-hearted  cowardry. 
If  he  awake,  yet  is  not  death  the  next. 
For  we  may  colour  it  with  some  pretext 
Of  this  or  that,  that  may  excuse  the  crime. 
Else  we  nray  fly  ;  thou  to  a  tree  mayst  climb. 
And  I  creep  underground  ;  both  from  his  reach  : 
Therefore  be  ruled  to  do  as  I  do  teach. ' 


SPENSER.  69 

"  The  Ape,  that  erst  did  nought  but  chill  and  quake, 
Now  'gan  some  courage  unto  him  to  take. 
And  was  content  to  attempt  that  enterprise. 
Tickled  with  glory  and  rash  covetise  ; 
But  first  'gan  question  whether  should  assay 
Those  royal  ornaments  to  steal  away. 

'"Marry,  that  shall  yourself,'  (quoth  he  thereto) 
'  For  ye  be  fine  and  nimble  it  to  do  ; 
Of  all  the  beasts  which  in  the  forests  be, 
Is  not  a  fitter  for  his  turn  than  ye. 
Therefore,  mine  own  dear  brother  !  take  good  heart, 
And  ever  think  a  kingdom  is  your  part.' 

"  Loth  was  the  Ape  (though  praiskl)  to  adventure  ; 
Yet  faintly  'gan  into  his  work  to  enter, 
Afraid  of  every  leaf  that  stirred  him  by, 
And  every  stick  that  underneath  did  lie. 
Upon  his  tiptoes  nicely  he  up  went, 
For  making  noise,  and  still  his  ear  he  lent 
To  every  sound  that  under  heaven  blew  ; 
Now  went,  now  stepped,  now  crept,  now  backward  drew, 
That  it  good  sport  had  been  him  to  have  eyed. 
Yet  at  the  last  (so  well  he  him  applied). 
Through  his  fine  handling  and  his  cleanly  play, 
lie  all  those  royal  signs  had  stoln  away. 
And  with  the  Fox's  help  them  borne  aside 
Into  a  secret  corner  unespied : 
Whither  whenas  they  came,  they  fell  at  words 
Whether  of  them  should  be  the  lord  of  lords. 
For  the  Ape  was  strifeful  and  ambitious, 
And  the  Fox  guileful,  and  most  covetous, — 
That  neither  pleased  was  to  have  the  rein 
Twixt  them  divided  into  even  twain, 
But  either  algates  would  be  lord  alone  ; 
For  love  and  lordship  bide  no  paragon. 

"  *  I  am  most  worthy '  (said  the  Ape),  'sith  I 
For  it  did  put  my  life  in  jeopardy  ; 
Thereto  I  am  in  person  and  in  stature 
Most  like  a  man,  the  lord  of  every  creature. 
So  that  it  seemelh  I  was  made  to  reign, 
And  born  to  be  a  kingly  sovereign.' 

"  'Nay,'  (said  the  Fox)  '  .Sir  Ape,  you  are  astray  ; 
For  though  to  steal  the  diadem  away 
Were  the  work  of  your  nimble  hand,  yet  I 
Did  first  devise  the  plot  by  policy. 
So  that  it  wholly  sprir.geth  from  my  wit  ; 
¥ov  which  also  I  clainr  myself  more  fit 
Than  you  to  rule.     For  government  of  state 
Will  without  wisdom  soon  be  ruinate. 
And,  where  ye  claim  yourself  for  outward  shape 
Most  like  a  man,  man  is  not  like  an  Ape 


70  SPENSER. 


In  his  chief  parts,  that  is,  in  wit  and  spirit ; 
But  I,  therein  most  like  to  him,  do  merit, 
For  my  sly  wiles  and  subtle  craftiness, 
The  title  of  the  kingdom  to  possess. 
Nathless,  my  brother,  since  we  passfed  are 
Unto  this  point,  we  will  appease  our  jar  ; 
And  I  with  reason  meet  will  rest  content 
That  ye  shall  have  both  crown  and  government, 
Upon  condition  that  ye  rulfed  be 
In  all  affairs,  and  counselled  by  me, 
And  that  ye  let  none  other  ever  draw 
Your  mind  from  me,  but  keep  this  as  a  law, 
And  hereupon  an  oath  imto  me  plight.' 

"  The  Ape  was  glad  to  end  the  strife  so  light, 
And  thereto  swore  ;  for  who  would  not  oft  swear, 
And  oft  unswear,  a  diadem  to  bear? 
Then  freely  up  those  royal  spoils  he  took, 
Yet  at  the  Lion's  skin  he  inly  quook, 
But  it  dissembled  ;   and  upon  his  head 
The  crown,  and  on  his  back  the  skin,  he  did  ; 
And  the  false  Fox,  he  helped  to  array. 
Then  when  he  was  all  dight,  he  took  his  way 
Into  the  forest,  that  he  might  be  seen 
Of  the  wild  beasts  in  his  new  glory  sheen. 
There  the  two  first  whom  he  encountered  were 
The  Sheep  and  the  Ass,  who,  stricken  both  with  fear 
At  sight  of  him,  'gan  fast  away  to  fly. 
But  unto  them  the  Fox  aloud  did  cry, 
And  in  the  king's  name  bade  them  both  to  stay. 
Upon  the  pain  that  thereof  follow  may. 
Hardly  nathless  were  they  restrained  so, 
Till  that  the  Fox  forth  toward  them  did  go. 
And  there  dissuaded  them  from  needless  fear. 
For  that  the  king  did  favour  to  them  bear. 
And  therefore  dreadless  bade  them  come  to  court, — 
For  no  wild  beasts  should  do  them  any  torte 
There  or  abroad,  ne  would  his  majesty 
Use  them  but  well,  with  gracious  clemency, 
As  whom  he  knew  to  him  both  fast  and  true. 
So  he  persuaded  them  with  homage  due 
Themselves  to  humble  to  the  Ape  prostrate. 
Who,  gently  to  them  bowing  in  his  gait, 
Received  them  with  cheerful  entertain. 

"  Thence,  forth  proceeding  v/ith  his  princely  train, 
He  shortly  met  the  Tiger  and  the  Boar, 
Which  with  the  simple  Camel  raged  sore 
In  bitter  words,  seeking  to  take  occasion 
Upon  his  fleshy  corps  to  make  invasion. 
But,  soon  as  they  this  mock-king  did  espy, 
Their  troublous  strife  they  stinted  by  and  by, 


SPENSER.  71 

Thinking  indeed  that  it  the  Lion  was. 
He  then,  to  prove  whether  his  power  would  pass 
As  current,  sent  the  Fox  to  them  straightway, 
Commanding  them  their  cause  of  strife  bewray  ; 
And,  if  that  wrong  on  either  side  there  were, 
That  he  should  warn  the  wronger  to  appear 
The  morrow  next  at  court  it  to  defend, — 
In  the  meantime  upon  the  king  to  attend. 

"The  subtle  Fox  so  well  his  message  said 
That  the  proud  beasts  him  readily  obeyed  ; 
Whereby  the  Ape  in  wondrous  stomach  wox, 
Strongly  encouraged  by  the  crafty  Fox, 
That  king  indeed  himself  he  shortly  thought. 
And  all  the  beasts  him  fearfed  as  they  ought, 
And  followbd  unto  his  palace  high  ; 
"Where  taking  congee,  each  one  by  and  by 
Departed  to  his  home  in  dreadful  awe, 
Full  of  the  fearfed  sight  which  late  they  saw. 

"  The  Ape,  thus  seized  of  the  regal  throne, 
Eftsoons,  by  counsel  of  the  Fox  alone, 
'Gan  to  provide  for  all  things  in  assurance, 
That  so  his  rule  might  longer  have  endurance. 
First  to  his  gate  he  'pointed  a  strong  guard, 
That  none  might  enter  but  with  issue  hard; 
Then,  for  the  safeguard  of  liis  personage. 
He  did  appoint  a  warlike  equipage 
Of  foreign  beasts,  not  in  the  forest  bred, 
But  part  by  land  and  part  by  water  fed ; 
For  tyranny  is  with  strange  aid  supported. 
Then  unto  him  all  monstrous  beasts  resorted. 
Bred  of  two  kinds,  as  griffons,  minotaurs. 
Crocodiles,  dragons,  beavers,  and  centaurs. 
With  those  himself  he  strengthened  mightily, 
That  fear  he  need  no  force  of  enemy. 
Then  'gan  he  rule  and  tyrannize  at  will, 
Like  as  the  Fox  did  guide  his  graceless  skill, 
And  all  wild  beasts  made  vassals  of  his  pleasures, 
And  with  their  spoils  enlarged  his  private  treasures. 
No  care  of  justice,  nor  no  rule  of  reason, 
No  temperance,  nor  no  regard  of  season. 
Did  thenceforth  ever  enter  in  his  mind; 
But  cruelty,  the  sign  of  currish  kind. 
And  'sdainful  jxide  and  wilful  arrogance; 
Such  follows  tliose  whom  Fortune  doth  advance. 

"  But  the  false  Fox  most  kindly  played  his  part, 
For  whatsoever  mother-wit  or  art 
Could  work  he  put  in  proof.     No  practice  sly, 
No  counterpoint  of  cunning  policy, 
No  reach,  no  breacli,  that  might  him  profit  bring. 
But  he  the  same  did  to  his  purpose  wring. 


72  SPENSER. 

Nought  suffered  he  the  Ape  to  give  or  grant, 

But  through  his  hand  alone  mnst  pass  the  fiant. 

All  offices,  all  leases,  by  him  leapt, ' 

And  of  them  all  whatso  he  liked  he  tept. 

Justice  he  sold,  injustice  for  to  buy, 

And  for  to  purchase  for  his  progeny. 

Ill  might  it  prosper  that  ill  gotten  was; 

But,  so  he  got  it,  little  did  he  pass. 

He  fed  his  cubs  with  fa.t  of  all  the  soil, 

And  with  the  sweat  of  others'  sweating  toil ; 

He  crammed  them  with  crumbs  of  benefices, 

And  filled  their  mouths  with  meeds  of  malefices; 

He  clothed  them  with  all  colours,  save  white, 

And  loaded  them  with  lordships  and  with  might, 

So  much  as  they  were  able  well  to  bear, 

That  with  the  weight  their  backs  nigh  broken  were ; 

He  cliaffered  chairs  in  which  churchmen  were  set. 

And  breach  of  laws  to  privy  farm  did  let. 

No  statute  so  established  might  be. 

Nor  ordinance  so  needful,  but  that  he 

Would  violate,  though  not  with  violence. 

Yet  under  colour  of  the  confidence 

The  which  the  Ape  reposed  in  him  alone. 

And  reckoned  him  the  kingdom's  corner-stone- 

And  ever,  when  he  aught  would  bring  to  pass, 

His  loi-4g  experience  the  platform  was ; 

And,  vdien  he  aught  not  pleasing  would  put  by. 

The  cloak  was  care  of  thrift  and  husbandly, 

For  to  increase  the  common  treasure's  store. 

But  his  own  treasure  he  mcreased  more. 

And  lifted  up  his  lofty  towers  thereby. 

That  they  began  to  threat  the  neighbour  sky  % 

The  whiles  the  prince's  palaces  fell  fast 

To  ruin  (for  what  thing  can  ever  last?) 

And  whilst  the  other  peers,  for  poverty. 

Were  forced  their  ancient  houses  to  let  lie, 

And  their  old  castles  to  the  ground  to  fall, 

Which  their  forefathers,  famous  over  all. 

Had  founded  for  the  kingdom's  ornament. 

And  for  their  memories'  long  monimenL 

But  he  no  count  made  of  nobility. 

Nor  the  wild  beasts  whom  arms  did  glorify. 

The  realm's  chief  strength,  and  girlond  of  the  crown ; 

All  these,  through  feigned  crimes,  he  thrust  adown, 

Or  made  them  dwell  in  darkness  of  disgrace. 

For  none  but  whom  he  list  might  come  m  place. 

Of  men  of  arms  he  had  but  small  regard. 

But  kept  them  low,  and  straitened  very  hard ; 

For  men  of  learning  little  he  esteemed ; 

His  wisdom  he  above  their  learning  deemed. 


SPENSER.  75 

As  for  the  rascal  commons,  least  he  cared, 

For  not  so  common  was  his  bounty  shared  ; 

'Let  God,'  (said  he)  'if  please,  care  for  the  many; 

I  for  myself  must  care  before  else  any.' 

So  did  he  good  to  none,  to  many  ill, 

So  did  he  all  the  kingdom  rob  and  pill ; 

Yet  none  durst  speak,  nor  none  durst  of  him  plain, 

So  great  he  was  in  grace,  and  rich  through  gain. 

Ne  would  he  any  let  to  have  access 

Unto  the  prince  but  by  his  own  address ; 

For  all  that  else  did  come  were  sure  to  fail. 

Yet  would  he  further  none  but  for  avail: 

For  on  a  time  the  Sheep,  to  whom  of  yore 

The  Fox  had  promised  of  friendship  store, 

"What  time  the  Ape  the  kingdom  first  did  gain, 

Came  to  the  court,  her  case  there  to  complain, 

How  that  the  Wolf,  her  mortal  enemy. 

Had  sithence  slain  her  lamb  most  cruelly, 

And  therefore  craved  to  come  unto  the  king, 

To  let  him  know  the  order  of  the  thing. 

'Soft,  Goody  Sheep,'  (then  said  the  Fox)  'not  so: 

Unto  the  king  so  rash  ye  may  not  go; 

He  is  M'ith  greater  matter  busied 

Than  a  lamb,  or  the  lamb's  own  mother's  head; 

Ne  certes  may  I  take  it  well  in  part 

That  ye  my  cousin  Wolf  so  foully  thwart. 

And  seek  with  slander  his  good  name  to  blot ; 

For  there  was  cause,  else  do  it  he  would  not. 

Therefore  surcease,  good  dame,  and  hence  depart.* 

So  went  the  Sheep  away  with  heavy  heart; 

So  many  moe,  so  every  one,  was  used. 

That  to  give  largely  to  the  Fox  refused. 

"Now  when  high  Jove,  in  whose  almighty  hand 
The  care  of  kings  and  power  of  empires  stand, 
(Sitting  one  day  within  his  turret  high 
From  whence  he  views  with  his  black-lidded  eye 
W' hatso  the  heaven  in  his  wide  vault  contains. 
And  all  that  in  the  deepest  earth  remains) 
The  troubled  kingdom  of  wild  beasts  beheld, — 
Whom  not  their  kindly  sovereign  did  weld. 
But  an  usurping  Ape,  with  guile  suborned. 
Had  all  sub  versed, — he  'sdainfully  it  scorned 
In  his  great  heart,  and  hardly  did  refrain 
But  that  with  thunderbolts  he  had  him  slain, 
And  driven  down  to  hell,  his  ducst  meed. 
But,  him  avising,  he  that  dreadful  deed 
Forbore,  and  rather  chose  with  scornful  shame 
Him  to  avenge,  and  blot  his  brutish  name 
Unto  the  world,  that  never  after  any 
Should  of  his  race  be  void  of  infamy ; 


74  SPENSER. 


And  his  false  counsellor,  the  cause  of  all, 
To  damn  to  death,  or  dole  perpetual, 
From  whence  he  never  should  be  quit  nor  stalled. 
Forthwith  he  Mercury  unto  him  called, 
And  bade  him  fly  with  never-resting  speed 
Unto  tlie  forest,  where  wild  beasts  do  breed, 
And  there,  enquiring  privily,  to  learn 
What  did  of  late  chance  to  the  Lion  stern, 
That  he  ruled  not  the  empire  as  he  ought. 
And  whence  were  all  those  plaints  unto  him  brought 
Of  wrongs  and  spoils  by  salvage  beasts  committed. 
Which  done,  he  bade  the  Lion  be  remitted 
Into  his  seat,  and  those  same  treachours  vile 
Be  punished  for  their  presumptuous  guile. 
"  The  son  of  Maia,  soon  as  he  received 
That  word,  straight  with  his  azure  wings  he  cleaved 
The  liquid  clouds  and  lucid  firmament, 
Ne  stayed  till  that  he  came  with  steep  descent 
Unto  the  place  where  his  prescript  did  show. 
There,  stooping  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow, 
He  soft  arrived  on  the  grassy  plain. 
And  fairly  paced  forth  with  easy  pain. 
Till  that  unto  the  palace  nigh  he  came. 
Then  'gan  he  to  himself  new  shape  to  frame; 
And  that  fair  face  and  that  ambrosial  hue 
Which  wonts  to  deck  the  gods'  immortal  crew, 
And  beautify  the  shiny  firmament, 
He  doffed,  unfit  for  that  rude  rabblement. 
So,  standing  by  the  gates  in  strange  disguise, 
He  'gan  enquire  of  some,  in  secret  wise. 
Both  of  the  king  and  of  his  government. 
And  of  the  Fox,  and  his  false  blandishment. 
And  evermore  he  heard  each  one  complain 
Of  foul  abuses  both  in  realm  and  reign ; 
Which  yet  to  prove  more  true  he  meant  to  see. 
And  an  eye-witness  of  each  thing  to  be. 
Tho  on  his  head  his  dreadful  hat  he  dight. 
Which  maketh  him  invisible  to  sight, 
And  mocketh  the  eyes  of  all  the  lookers-on. 
Making  them  think  it  but  a  vision. 

Through  power  of  that  he  runs  through  enemies'  swerds; 
Through  power  of  that  he  passeth  through  the  herds 
Of  ravenous  wild  beasts,  and  doth  beguile 
Their  greedy  mouths  of  the  expected  spoil ; 
Through  power  of  that  his  cunning  thieveries 
He  wonts  to  work,  that  none  the  same  espies; 
And  through  the  power  of  that  he  putteth  on 
What  shape  he  list  in  apparition. 
That  on  his  head  he  wore,  and  in  his  hand 
He  took  Caduceus,  his  snaky  wand. 


SPEA^SER.  75 


With  which  the  damned  gliosts  he  governeth, 

And  Furies  rules,  and  Tartare  tempereth. 

With  that  he  causeth  sleep  to  seize  the  eyes, 

And  fear  the  hearts  of  all  his  enemies  ; 

And,  when  him  list,  an  universal  night 

Throughout  the  world  he  makes  on  every  wight, 

As  when  his  sire  with  Alcumena  lay. 

Thus  dight,  into  the  court  he  took  his  way, 

Both  through  the  guard,  which  never  him  descried, 

And  through  the  watchmen,  who  him  never  spied. 

Thence  forth  he  passed  into  each  secret  part. 

Whereas  he  saw  (that  sorely  grieved  his  heart) 

Each  place  abounding  with  foul  injuries, 

And  filled  with  treasure  racked  with  robberies ; 

Each  place  defiled  with  blood  of  guiltless  beasts, 

Which  had  been  slain  to  serve  the  Ape's  beheasts : 

Gluttony,  malice,  pride,  and  covetize, 

And  lawlessness  reigning  with  riotize ; 

Besides  the  infinite  extortions 

Done  through  the  Fox's  great  oppressions, 

That  the  complaints  thereof  could  not  be  told. 

"  Which  when  he  did  with  loathful  eyes  behold. 
He  would  no  more  endure,  but  came  his  way, 
And  cast  to  seek  the  Lion  where  he  may, 
That  he  might  work  the  avengement  for  his  shame 
On  those  two  caitives  which  had  bred  him  blame. 
And,  seeking  all  the  forest  busily, 
At  last  he  found  where  sleeping  he  did  lie. 
The  wicked  weed  which  tliere  the  Fox  did  lay 
From  underneath  his  head  he  took  awayj 
And  then  him  wakmg  forced  up  to  rise. 
The  lion,  looking  up,  'gan  him  avize, 
As  one  late  in  a  trance,  what  had  of  long 
Become  of  him,  for  fantasy  is  strong. 

"  'Arise,'  (said  Mercury)  'thou  sluggish  beast, 
That  here  liest  senseless,  like  the  corpse  deceased, 
The  whilst  thy  kingdom  from  thy  head  is  rent. 
And  thy  throne  royal  with  dishonour  blent ; 
Arise,  and  do  thyself  redeem  from  shame. 
And  be  avenged  on  those  that  breed  thy  blame!' 

"Thereat  enraged,  soon  he  'gan  up-start, 
Grinding  his  teeth,  and  greating  his  great  heart; 
And,  rousing  up  himself,  for  his  rough  hide 
He  'gan  to  reach,  but  nowhere  it  espied. 
Therewith  he  'gan  full  terrible  to  roar. 
And  chafed  at  that  indignity  right  sore. 
But,  when  his  crown  and  sceptre  both  he  wanted. 
Lord  how  he  fumed,  and  swelled,  and  raged,  and  panted, 
And  threatened  death  and  thousand  deadly  dolours 
To  them  that  had  purloined  his  princely  honours ! 


76  SPENSER: 


With  that  in  haste,  disrobfed  as  he  was, 
He  towards  his  own  palace  forth  did  pass  ; 
And  all  the  way  he  roared  as  he  went, 
That  all  the  forest  with  astonishment 
Thereof  did  tremble,  and  the  beasts  therein 
Fled  fast  away  from  that  so  dreadful  din. 

"  At  last  he  came  unto  his  mansion, 
Where  all  the  gates  he  found  fast  locked  anon, 
And  many  warders  round  about  them  stood. 
With  that  he  roared  aloud,  as  he  were  wood, 
That  all  the  palace  quaked  at  the  stound, 
As  if  it  quite  were  riven  from  the  ground. 
And  all  within  were  dead  and  heartless  left. 
And  the  Ape  himself,  as  one  whose  wits  were  reft. 
Fled  here  and  there,   and  every  comer  sought. 
To  hide  himself  from  his  own  feared  thought. 
But  the  false  Fox,  when  he  the  Lion  heard, 
Fled  closely  forth,  straightway  of  death  afeared ; 
And  to  the  Lion  came  full  lowly  creeping. 
With  feigned  face,  and  watery  eyn  half  weeping. 
To  excuse  his  former  treason  and  abusion. 
And  turning  all  unto  the  Ape's  confusion. 
Nathless  the  royal  beast  forbore  believing, 
But  bade  him  stay  at  ease  till  further  prieving. 
Then  when  he  saw  no  entrance  to  him  granted. 
Roaring  yet  louder,  that  all  hearts  it  daunted. 
Upon  those  gates  with  force  he  fiercely  flew; 
And,  rending  them  in  pieces,  felly  slew 
Those  warders  strange,  and  all  that  else  he  met. 
But  the  Ape,  still  flying,  he  nowhere  might  get. 
From  room  to  room,  from  beam  to  beam,  he  fled, 
All  breathless,  and  for  fear  now  almost  dead. 
Yet  him  at  last  the  Lion  spied,  and  caught. 
And  forth  with  shame  unto  his  judgment  brought. 

"  Then  all  the  beasts  he  caused  assembled  be, 
To  hear  their  doom,  aud  sad  ensample  see. 
The  Fox,  first  author  of  that  treachery, 
He  did  uncase,  and  then  away  let  fly; 
But  the  Ape's  long  tail  (which  then  he  had)  he  quite 
Cut  off,  and  both  ears  pared  of  their  height ; 
Since  which  all  apes  but  half  their  ears  have  left, 
And  of  their  tails  are  utterly  bereft." 


So  Mother  Hubbard  her  discourse  did  end 
Which  pardon  me  if  I  amiss  have  penned ; 
For  weak  was  my  remembrance  it  to  hold, 
And  bad  her  tongue  that  it  so  bluntly  told. 


HARINGTON.  77 


SIR  JOHN  HARINGTON. 

[Born  in  1561,  son  of  a  natural  daughter  of  Henry  VIII.  ;   died  in   1612, 
Author  of  the  celebrated  translation  of  Ariosto's  Orlando  Furioso]. 

OF  A  PRECISE  TAILOR. 
A  TAILOR,  a  man  of  an  upright  dealing, 
True  but  for  lying,  honest  but  for  stealing, 
Did  fall  one  day  extremely  sick  by  chance. 
And  on  the  sudden  was  in  wondrous  trance. 
The  Fiends  of  hell,   mustering  in  fearful  manner, 
Of  sundry-coloured  silks  displayed  a  banner, 
Which  he  had  stoln  ;    and  wished,  as  they  did  tell, 
That  one  day  he  might  find  it  all  in  hell. 
The  man,  affrighted  at  this  apparition. 
Upon  recovery  grew  a  great  precisian. 
He  bought  a  Bible  of  the  new  translation. 
And  in  his  life  he  showed  gi'eat  reformation. 
He  walked  mannerly  and  talked  meekly  ; 
He  heard  three  lectures  and  two  sermons  weekly; 
He  vowed  to  shun  all  companies  unruly, 
And  in  his  speech  he  used  no  oath  but  "truly:" 
And,  zealously  to  keep   the  Sabbath's  rest, 
His  meat  for  that  day  on  the  even  was  dressed. 
And,  lest  the  custom  that  he  had  to  steal 
Might  cause  him  sometime  to  forget  his  zeal, 
He  give^  his  journeyman  a  special  charge 
That,  if  the  stuff  allowed  fell  out  too  large, 
And  that  to  filch  his  fingers  were  inclined, 
He  then  should  put  the  Banner  in  his  mind. 
This  done,  I  scant  the  rest  can  tell  for  laughter. 
A  Captain  of  a  ship  came  three  days  after. 
And  brought  three  yards  of  velvet  and  three  quarters, 
To  make  Venetians  down  below  the  garters. 
He,  that  precisely  knew  what  was  enough, 
Soon  slipped  away  three  quarters  of  the  stuff. 
His  man,  espying  it,  said  in  derision, 
"  Remember,  Master,  how  you  saw  the  vision  !" 
"  I'eace,  knave,"  quoth  he  ;  "I  did  not  see  one  rag 
Of  such-a-coloured  silk  in  all  the  flae:," 


78 


DA  VIES. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 

[Bom  in  1570 ;  died  in  1626,  in  which  year  he  had  been  appointed  Lord  Chief_ 
Justice.  Author  of  the  noted  work  Nosce  Teipsurn,  pubhshed  in  1599,  and* 
accounted  one  of  the  prime  specimens  of  the  so-called  "Metaphysical  School" 
of  poetry.] 

A  RIPDLE  UPON  A  COFFIN. 

There  was  a  man  bespake  a  thing, 
Which  when  the  owner  home  did  bring, 
lie  that  made  it  did  refuse  it ; 
And  he  that  brought  it  would  not  use  it  ; 
And  he  that  hath  it  doth  not  know 
Whether  he  hath  it  yea  or  no. 


IN  GERONTEM. 

GerON  his  mouldy  memory  corrects 

Old  Holinshed,  our  famous  Chronicler, 

With  moral  rules  ;  and  policy  collects 

Out  of  all  actions  done  these  fourscore  year ; 

Accounts  the  time  of  every  old  event, 

Not  from  Christ's  birth,  nor  from  the  Prince's  reign, 

But  from  some  other  famous  accident, 

Which  in  men's  general  notice  doth'Tremain, — 

The  siege  of  Boulogne  and  the  Plaguy  Sweat, 

The  going  to  St.  Quintin's  and  New-haven, 

The  rising  in  the  North,  the  Frost  so  great 

That  cart-wheels'  prints  on  Thamis'  face  were  graven, 

The  fall  of  money,  and  burnmg  of  Paul's  steeple. 

The  blazing  star,  and  Spaniard's  overthrow. 

By  these  events,  notorious  to  the  people. 

He  measures  times,  and  things  forepast  doth  show. 

But,  most  of  all,  he  chiefly  reckons  by 

A  private  chance, — the  death  of  his  curst  wife; 

This  is  to  him  the  dearest  memory. 

And  the  happiest  accident  of  all  his  life. 


DONNE.  79 


JOHN  DONNE. 

[Corn  in  London,  1573  ;  died  there,  31  March  2631.  Donne  was  at  first 
destined  for  the  law :  afterwards  he  travelled  in  Italy,  Spain,  and  elsewhere  ; 
and  then  became  Secretary  to  Lord  Chancellor  Egerton.  He  incurred  great 
displeasure  by  contracting  a  clandestine  marriage  with  the  Chancellor's  niece, 
daughter  of  Sir  George  More.  Finally,  after  serious  studies,  he  entered  holy 
orders,  and  became  Dean  of  St.  Paul's.  In  all  his  vocations  he  e-xcited  great 
admiration,  and  as  a  clergyman  he  was  highly  revered.  The  poems  of  Donne 
are  loaded  with  ingenious  thought  ;  often  provokingly  involved  or  paradoxical, 
and  thwarting  the  true  and  natural  course  of  poesy, — yet  it  is  constantly 
thought,  not  mere  whim  or  wire-drawing.  A  large  and  keen  intellect,  and  a 
fervid  poetic  sense,  are  united  i.a  Donne  ;  and  combine  to  produce  poetry  much 
of  which  is  truly  fine,  and  can  even  become  fascinating  to  a  reader  willing  to 
"  acclimatize  "  himself  in  this  rarefied  and  vibrating  atmosphere.  Few  English 
poetic  writers  give  indication  of  a  more  masculine  capacity.  The  man  of  the 
world,  of  adventure  and  gallantry,  is  quite  as  prominent  in  the  verses  as  the 
student  or  divine  ;  and  it  is  often  startling  to  reflect  that  the  personage  so 
thorough-going  in  th  former  character  was  the  same  who  shone  with  genuire 
sanctity  in  the  latter.] 

SONG. 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star, 

Get  with  child  a  mandrake  root  ; 
Tell  me  where  all  past  years  are, 
Or  who  cleft  the  Devil's  foot ; 
Teach  me  to  hear  Mermaids  singing, — 
Or  to  keep  off  envy's  stinging, 
And  find 
What  wind 
Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

If  thou  beest  born  to  strange  sights. 

Things  invisible  to  see. 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights. 

Till  age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee  ; 
Thou,  when  thou  retum'st,  wilt  tell  me 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee,    > 

And  swear  , 

Nowhere 
Lives  a  ■woman  true  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know  ; 
Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet. 
Yet  do  not ;  I  would  not  go, 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her. 
And  last  till  you  write  your  letter. 
Yet  she 
Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 


8o  DONNE. 


WOMAN'S  CONSTANCY. 
Now  thou  hast  loved  me  one  whole  day, 
To-morrow,  when  thou  leav'st,  what  wilt  thou  say? 
Wilt  thou  then  antedate  some  new-made  vow  ? 

Or  say  that  now 
We  are  not  just  those  persons  which  we  were  ? 
Or  that  oaths  made  in  reverential  fear 
Of  Love,  and  his  wrath,  any  may  forswear  ? 
(For,  as  true  deaths  true  marriages  untie, 
So  lovers'  contracts,  images  of  those, 
Bind  but  till  sleep,  death's  image,  them  unloose) ; 

Or,  your  own  end  to  justify, 
For,  having  purposed  change  and  falsehood,  you 
Can  have  no  way  but  falsehood  to  be  true? 
Vain  lunatic  !  against  these  scapes  I  could 

Dispute,  and  conquer,  if  I  would  ; — 

Which  I  abstain  to  do. 
For  by  to-morrow  I  may  think  so  too. 


THE  INDIFFERENT. 
I  CAN  love  both  fair  and  brown  ; 

Her  whom  abundance  melts,  and  her  whom  want  betrays  ; 
Her  who  loves  loneness  best,  and  her  who  masks  and  plays  ; 
Her  vv^hom  the  country  formed,  and  whom  the  town  ; 
Her  who  believes,  and  her  who  tries  ; 
Her  who  still  weeps  with  spongy  eyes, 
And  her  who  is  dry  cork,  and  never  cries  ; 
I  can  love  her,  and  her,  and  you,  and  you, — 
I  can  love  any,  so  she  be  not  true. 

Will  no  other  vice  content  you? 

Will  it  not  serve  your  turn  to  do  as  did  your  mothers  ? 

Or  have  you  all  old  vices  spent,  and  now  would  find  out  others? 

Or  doth  a  fear  that  men  are  true  torment  you  ? 

Oh  we  are  not ;  be  not  you  so  ! 

Let  me,  and  do  you,  twenty  know  ! 

Rob  me,  but  bind  me  not,  and  let  me  go. 

Must  I,  who  came  to  travel  thorough  you, 

Grow  your  fixed  subject,  because  you  are  true  ? 

Venus  heard  me  sigh  this  song  ; 

And  by  Love's  sweetest  part.  Variety,  she  swore. 

She  heard  not  this  till  now  ;  it  should  be  so  no  more. 

She  went,  examined,  and  returned  ere  long. 

And  said  :   "  Alas  !  some  two  or  three 

Poor  Heretics  in  love  there  be 

Which  think  to  stablish  dangerous  constancy. 

But  I  have  told  them.  Since  you  will  be  true, 

You  shall  be  true  to  them  who  are  false  to  you." 


DONNE.  8r 


THE  WILL. 

B^ORE  I  sigh  my  last  gasp,  let  me  breathe, 
Great  Jove,  some  legacies.     Here  I  bequeath 
Mine  eyes  to  Argus,  if  mine  eyes  can  see  ; 
If  they  be  blind,  then,  Love,  I  give  them  thee. 
My  tongue  to  Fame  ;  to  Embassadors  inine  ears  ; 
To  women  or  the  sea,  my  tears. 
Thou,  Love,  hast  taught  me  heretofore 
By  making  me  serve  her  who  had  twenty  more. 
That  I  should  give  to  none  but  such  as  had  too  much  before. 

My  constancy  I  to  the  Planets  give ; 
My  truth  to  them  who  at  the  Court  do  live  ; 
Mine  ingenuity  and  openness. 
To  Jesuits  ,  to  Buffoons  my  pensiveness  ; 
My  silence  to  any  who  abroad  hath  been  ; 
My  money  to  a  Capuchin. 
Thou,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  appointing  me 
To  love  there  where  no  love  received  can  be. 
Only  to  give  to  such  as  have  an  incapacity. 

My  faith  I  give  to  Roman  Catholics  ; 
All  my  good  works  unto  the  Schismatics 
Of  Amsterdam  ;  my  best  civility 
And  courtship,  to  an  University; 
IMy  modesty  I  give  to  Soldiers  bare  ; 
My  patience  let  gamesters  share. 
Thqu,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  that  holds  my  love  disparity. 
Only  to  give  to  those  that  count  my  gifts  indignity. 

I  give  my  reputation  to  those 
Which  were  my  friends  ;  mine  industry  to  foes  ; 
To  schoolmen  I  bequeath  my  doubtfulness  ; 
My  sickness  to  Physicians,  or  excess  ; 
To  Nature,  all  tliat  I  in  rhyme  have  writj 
And  to  my  company  my  wit. 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  adore 
ITer  who  begot  this  love  in  me  before, 
Taught'st  me  to  make  as  though  I  gave  when  I  do  but  restore. 

To  him  for  whom  the  passing-bell  next  tolls, 
I  give  my  physic-books  ;  my  written  rolls 
Of  moral  counsels  I  to  Bedlam  give  ; 
My  brazen  medals,  unto  them  which  live 
In  want  of  bread  ;  to  them  which  pass  among 
All  foreigners,  mine  English  tongue. 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  love  one 
Who  thinks  Iicr  friendship  a  fit  portion 
For  younger  lovers,  dost  my  gift  thus  disproportion. 


82  BEN  JONSON: 


Tlierefore  I'll  give  no  more,  but  I'll  undo 
The  world  by  dying  ;  because  love  dies  too. 
Then  all  your  beauties  will  be  no  more  worth 
Than  gold  in  mines,  where  none  doth  draw  it  forth  ; 
And  all  your  graces  no  more  use  shall  have 
Than  a  sun-dial  in  a  grave. 
Thou,  I.ove,  taught'st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  who  dotli  neglect  both  me  and  thee, 
To  invent  and  practise  this  one  way  to  annihilate  all  three. 


BEN  JONSON. 
[Born  in  Westminster,  1574  ;  died  there,  6  August'1637]. 
ON  GILES  AND  JOAN, 
Who  says  that  Giles  and  Joan  at  discord  be? 
The  observing  neighbours  no  such  mood  can  see. 
Indeed,  poor  Giles  repents  he  married  ever ; 
But  that  his  Joan  doth  too.      And  Giles  would  never. 
By  his  free  will,  be  in  Joan's  company  ; 
No  more  would  Joan  he  should.     Giles  risetli  early, 
And,  having  got  him  out  of  doors,  is  glad  ; 
The  like  is  Joan  : — but,   turning  home,  is  sad  ; 
And  so  is  Joan.     Ofttiraes  when  Giles  doth  find 
Harsh  sights  at  home,  Giles  wisheth  he  were  blind  ; 
All  this  cloth  Joan  :   or  that  his  long-yearned  life 
Were  quite  out-spun  ;    the  like  wish  hath  his  wife. 
The  children  that  he  keeps  Giles  swears  are  none 
Of  his  begetting  ;  and  so  swears  his  Joan. 
In  all  affections  she  concurreth  still. 
If  now,  with  man  and  wife,  to  will  and  nill 
The  selfsame  things  a  note  of  concord  be, 
I  know  no  couple  better  can  agree. 


TO  CAPTAIN  HUNGRY. 
Do  what  you  come  for,  captain,  with  your  news, — 
That's  sit  and  eat  ;  do  not  my  ears  abuse. 
I  oft  look  on  false  coin  to  know't  from  tiiie  ; 
Not  that  I  love  it  more  tlian  I  will  you. 
Tell  the  gross  Dutch  those  grosser  tales  of  yours  ; 
How  great  you  were  with  their  two  emperors, 
And  yet  are  with  their  princes  :  fill  them  full 
Of  your  Moravian  horse,  Venetian  bull ; 
Tell  them  what  imrts  you've  ta'en,  whence  run  away. 
What  states  you  gulled,  and  which  yet  keeps  you  in  pay  ; 
Give  them  your  services,  and  embassies 
In  Ireland,   Holland,  Sweden,  pompous  lies  ! 
In  Hungary  and  Poland,  Turkey  too  ; 
What  at  Leghorn,  Rome,  Florence,  you  did  do  ; 


BEN  JOATSON:  83'. 


And,  in  some  year,  all  these  together  heaped, — 

For  which  there  must  more  sea  and  land  be  leaped 

(If  but  to  be  believed  you  have  the  hap) 

Than  can  a  flea  at  twice  skip  i'  the  map. 

Give  your  young  statesmen  (that  first  make  you  drunk, 

And  then  lie  with  you,   closer  than  a  punk, 

For  news)  your  Villeroys,  and  Silleries, 

Janins,  your  Nuncios,   and  your  Tuileries, 

Your  Arch-dukes'  agents,  and  your  Beringhams, 

That  are  your  words  of  credit.     Keep  your  names 

Of  Hannow,  Shieter-huissen,  Popenheim, 

Hans-spiegle,  Rotteinberg,  and  Boutersheim, 

For  your  next  meal  ;  this  you  are  sure  of.     Why 

Will  you  part  with  them  here,  unthriftily  ? 

Nay,  now  you  puff,  tusk,  and  draw  up  your  chin, 

Twirl  the  poor  chain  you  ran  a-feasting  in. 

Come,  be  not  angry  ;  you  are  hungry, — eat'; 

Do  what  you  come  for,  captain  ;  there's  your  meat. 


A  FIT  OF  RHYME  AGAINST  RHYME. 
Rhyme,  the  rack  of  finest  wits, 
Tliat  expresseth  but  by  fits 

True  conceit. 
Spoiling  senses  of  their  treasure. 
Cozening  judgment  with  a  measure, 

But  false  weight  ; 
Wresting  words  from  their  true  calling  ; 
Propping  verse  for  fear  of  falling 

To  the  ground  ; 
Jointing  syllabes,  drowning  letters, 
Fastening  vowels,  as  with  fetters 

They  were  bound  ! 
Soon  as  lazy  thou  wert  known, 
All  good  poetry  hence  was  flown, 

And  art  banished  ; 
For  a  thousand  years  together. 
All  Parnassus'  green  did  wither. 

And  wit  vanished 
Pegasus  did  fly  away  ; 
At  the  wells  no  Muse  did  stay, 

But  bewailed 
So  to  see  the  fountain  dry, 
And  Apollo's  music  die. 

All  light  failed. 
Starveling  rhymes  did  fill  tlie  stage, — 
Not  a  poet  in  an  age. 

Worthy  crowming ; 
Not  a  work  deserving  l^ays, 
Nor  a  line  deserving  ]5raise, 

Pallas  frowning. 


84  BEN  ^ONSON. 


Greek  was  free  from  rhyme's  infection  ; 
Happy  Greek,  by  this  protection, 

Was  not  spoiled ; 
Whilst  the  Latin,  queen  of  tongues, 
Is  not  yet  free  from  rhyme's  wrongs, 

But  rests  foiled. 
Scaixe  the  Hill  again  doth  flourish. 
Scarce  the  world  a  wit  doth  nourish, 

To  restore 
PhoelDus  to  his  crown  again, 
And  the  Muses  to  their  brain. 

As  before. 
Vulgar  languages  that  want 
Words  and  sweetness,  and  be  scant 

Of  true  measure. 
Tyrant  rhyme  hath  so  abused 
That  they  long  since  have  refused 

Other  censure. 
He  that  first  invented  thee. 
May  his  joints  tormented  be, 

Cramped  for  ever ; 
Still  may  syllabes  jar  with  time, 
Still  may  reason  war  with  rhyme, 

Resting  never  ! 

May  his  sense,  \vhen  it  would  meet 
The  cold  tumour  in  his  feet, 

Grow  unsounder ; 
And  his  title  be  long  Fool, 
That  in  rearing  such  a  school 

Was  the  founder ! 


EPISTLE  TO  MY  LADY  COVELL. 

You  won  not  verses,  madam,  you  won  me, 
When  you  would  play  so  nobly  and  so  free, 
A  book  to  a  few  lines  !     But  it  was  fit 
You  won  them  too  ;  your  odds  did  merit  it. 
So  have  you  gained  a  servant  and  a  Muse  : 
The  first  of  which  I  fear  you  will  refuse  ; 
And  you  may  justly,  — being  a  tardy,  cold, 
Unprofitable  chattel,  fat  and  old, 
Laden  with  belly,  and  doth  hardly  approach 
His  friends,  but  to  break  chairs  or  crack  a  coach. 
LI  is  weight  is  twenty  stone  within  two  pound  ; 
And  that's  made  up  as  doth  the  purse  abound. 
Marry,  the  Muse  is  one  can  tread  the  air. 
And  stroke  the  water,  nimble,  chaste,  and  fair, — 
Sleep  in  a  virgin's  bosom  without  fear, 
Run  all  the  rounds  in  a  soft  lady's  car, 


BISHOP  HALL.  85 


Widow  or  wife,  without  the  jealousy 

Of  either  suitor  or  a  servant  by. 

Such,  if  her  manners  like  you,  I  do  send  ; 

And  can  for  other  graces  her  commend, — 

To  make  you  merry  on  the  dressing-stool 

A'  mornings,  and  at  afternoons  to  fool 

Away  ill  company,  and  help  in  rhyme 

Your  Joan  to  pass  her  melancholy  time. 

By^this,  although  you  fancy  not  the  man. 

Accept  his  Muse  ;  and  tell,  I  know  you  can, 

How  many  verses,  madam,  are  your  due. 

I  can  lose  none  in  tendering  these  to  you. 

I  gain  in  having  leave  to  keep  my  day, — 

And  should  grow  rich,  had  I  much  more  to  pay. 


BISHOP  gOSEPH)  HALL. 

[Born  in  IS74  died  in  1656.  He  became  Bishop  of  Exeter  in  1627,  and  of 
Norwich  in  1641  ;  soon  after  which,  the  troubles  of  the  time,  in  church  and 
state,  ousted  him  from  his  see,  and  he  expired  unrestored,  but  much  esteemed 
for  character  and  piety.  His  Satires  are  the  first  compositions  of  that  kind,  in 
a  regular  form,  in  the  English  language.  So  at  least  they  are  generally  ac- 
counted ;  though  I  hardly  know  why  the  claims  of  Wyatt  in  this  respect  should 
be  ignored.  Even  as  regards  Hall  himself,  some  of  his  Satires  are  of  a  very 
curt  and  casual  sort,  as  our  specimen  shows]. 

A  TRENCHER  CHAPLAIN. 

A  GENTLE  squire  would  gladly  entertain 

Into  his  house  some  trencher-chapelain  ; 

Some  willing  man  that  might  instruct  his  sons. 

And  that  would  stand  to  gooti  conditions. 

First,  that  he  lie  upon  the  truckle-bed, 

Whiles  his  young  master  lieth  o'er  his  head. 

Second,  that  he  do,  on  no  default. 

Ever  presume  to  sit  above  the  salt. 

Third,  that  he  never  change  his  trencher  twice. 

Fourth,  that  he  use  all  common  courtesies  ; 

Sit  bare  at  meals,  and  one  half  rise  and  wait. 

Last,  that  he  never  his  young  master  beat, 

But  he  must  ask  his  mother  to  define 

How  many  jerks  she  would  his  breech  should  line. 

All  these  ol)served,  he  could  contented  be 

To  give  five  marks  and  winter  livery. 


86  JOHN  FLETCHER. 


JOHN  FLETCHER. 

[Bom  in  Northamptonshire,  1576,  son  of  a  Bishop  of  London  :  died  of  the 
plague,  1625.  The  constant  colleague  of  Francis  Beaumont  as  a  dramatist,  and 
in  dailyjlife  as  well :  it  is  said  "  that  they  lived  together  on  the  Bank-side,  and 
not  only  pursued  their  studies  in  close  companionship,  but  carried  their  com- 
munity of  habits  so  far  that  they  had  only  one  bench  between  them,  and  used 
the  same  clothes  and  cloaks  in  common."  Fletcher  is  believed  to  have  composed 
the  larger  portion  of  the  plays,  and  the  great  majority  of  the  interspersed  songs. 
The  following  comes  from  a  drama,  The  Nice  Valour,  which  is  ascribed  to 
Fletcher  singly]. 

LAUGHING  SONG. 

[For  several  voices.  J 

Oh  how  my  lungs  do  tickle  !  ha  ha  ha  ! 
Oh  how  my  lungs  do  tickle  !  ho  ho  ho  ho  ! 

Set  a  sharp  jest 

Against  my  breast, 
Then  how  my  lungs  do  tickle  ! 

As  nightingales, 

And  things  in  cambric  rails. 
Sing  best  against  a  prickle. 

Ha  ha  ha  ha  ! 

Ho  ho  ho  ho  ho  ! 
Laugh  !  Laugh  !  Laugh  !  Laugh  ! 
Wide  !  Loud  !  And  vary  ! 
A  smile  is  for  a  simpering  novice, — 
One  that  ne'er  tasted  caviare, 
Nor  knows  the  .smack  of  dear  anchovies. 

Ha  ha  ha  ha  ha  ! 

Ho  ho  ho  ho  ho  ! 
A  giggling  waiting-wench  for  me, 
That  shows  her  teeth  how  white  they  be, — 
A  thing  not  fit  for  gravity. 
For  theirs  are  foul  and  hardly  three. 

Ha  ha  ha  ! 

Ho  ho  ho  ! 
"^Democritus,  thou  ancient  fleerer, 

How  I  miss  thy  laugh,  and  ha'  since  !"  ^ 
There  thou  named  the  famous[est]  jeerer 
That  e'er  jeered  in  Rome  or  Athens. 

Ha  ha  ha  ! 

Ho  ho  ho  ! 
"How  brave  lives  he  that  keeps  a  fool, 

Although  the  rate  be  deeper  ! " 
But  he  that  is  his  own  fool,  sir, 

Does  live  a  great  deal  cheaper. 
"Sure  I  shall  burst,  burst,  quite  break, 
Thou  art  so  witty." 

1  Changed  by  Seward  to 

"  How  I  miss  thy  laugh,  and  ha-sense.' 
Neither  reading  is  very  convincing. 


'    CORBET.  87 


"  'Tis  rare  to  break  at  court, 
For  that  belongs  to  the  city." 

Ha  ha  !  my  spleen  is  almost  wor:i 
To  the  last  laughter. 

"  Oh  keep  a  corner  for  a  friend  I 
A  jest  may  come  hereafter." 


BISHOP  (RICHARD)  CORBET. 

[Bom  in  1582,  died  in  1635.  Bishop  of  Oxford  and  of  Nonvich.  The  humor- 
ous turn  of  his  verses  was  the  reflex  of  the  like  quahty  in  himself  Indeed, 
his  deportment  appears  to  have  often  been  eminently  unepiscopal :  he  had, 
however,  substantial  merits  of  kindliness  and  sound  sense  to  set  off  against 
this]. 

DR.  CORBET'S  JOURNEY  INTO  FRANCE. 

I  WENT  from  England  into  France, 
Nor  yet  to  learn  to  cringe  nor  dance, 

Nor  yet  to  ride  nor  fence  ; 
Nor  did  I  go  like  one  of  those 
That  do  return  with  half  a  nose 

They  carried  from  hence. 

But  I  to  Paris  rode  along, 

Much  like  John  Dory  in  the  song. 

Upon  a  holy-tide  ; 
I  on  an  ambling  nag  did  jet 
(I  trust  he  is  not  paid  for  yet), 

And  spurred  him  on  each  side, 

And  to  St.  Denis  fast  we  came. 
To  see  the  sights  of  Notre  Dame, 

(The  man  that  shows  them  snuffles)  j 
Where  who  is  apt  for  to  believe 
May  see  our  Lady's  right-arm  sleeve. 

And  eke  her  old  pantofles  ; 

Her  breast,  her  milk,  her  very  go\\Ti 
That  she  did  wear  in  Bethlehem  to\\Ti 

When  in  the  inn  she  lay; 
Yet  all  the  world  knows  that's  a  fable, 
For  so  good  clothes  ne'er  lay  in  stable 

Upon  a  lock  of  hay. 

No  carpenter  could  by  his  trade 
Gain  so  much  coin  as  to  have  made 

A  gown  of  so  rich  stuff ; 
Yet  they,  poor  souls,  think,  for  their  credit. 
That  they  believe  old  Joseph  did  it, 

'Cause  lie  deserved  enough. 


88  CORBET. 


There  is  one  of  the  cross's  nails, 
Which  whoso  sees  his  bonnet  vails. 

And,  if  he  will,  may  kneel. 
Some  say  'twas  false,  'twas  never  so  j 
Yet,  feeling  it,  thus  much  I  know. 

It  is  as  true  as  steel. 

There  is  a  lanthom  which  the  Jews, 
When  Judas  led  them  fortli,  did  use,— 

It  weighs  my  weight  downright  ; 
But,  to  belie^^e  it,  you  must  think 
The  Jews  did  put  a  candle  in't. 

And  then  'twas  very  light. 

There's  one  saint  there  hath  lost  his  nose. 
Another's  head,  but  not  his  toes. 

His  elbow  and  his  thumb. 
But,  when  that  we  had  seen  the  rags, 
We  went  to  the  inn,  and  took  our  nags. 

And  so  away  did  come. 

We  came  to  Paris,  on  the  Seine  ; 
'Tis  wondrous  fair,  'tis  nothing  clean, 

'Tis  Europe's  greatest  town  ; 
How  strong  it  is  I  need  not  tell  it. 
For  all  the  world  may  easily  smell  it. 

That  walk  it  up  and  down. 

There  many  strange  things  are  to  see  j — , 
The  palace  and  great  gallery, 

The  Place  Royal  doth  excel, 
The  New  Bridge,  and  the  statues  there, — 
At  Notre  Dame  St.  Q.  Pater 

The  steeple  bears  the  bell  ; 

For  learning  the  University, 
And  for  old  clothes  the  Frippery  ,• 
The  house  the  queen  did  build  ; 
St.  Innocence,  whose  earth  devours 
Dead  corps  in  four-and-twenty  hours. 
And  there  tlie  king  was  killed. 

The  Bastille  and  St.  Denis  Street, 
The  Shafflenist  like  London  Fleet, 

The  Arsenal  no  toy  ; 
But,  if  you'll  see  the  prettiest  thing. 
Go  to  the  court  and  see  the  king — 

Oh  'tis  a  hopeful  boy  ! 

He  is,  of  all  his  dukes  and  peers, 
Reverenced  for  much  wit  at's  years. 
Nor  must  you  think  it  much  ; 


CORBET.  89 


For  he  with  little  switch  doth  play, 
And  make  fine  dirty  pies  of  clay, — 
Oh  never  king  made  such  ! 

A  bird  that  can  but  kill  a  fly, 
Or  prate,  doth  please  his  majesty, 

'Tis  known  to  every  one  ; 
The  Duke  of  Guise  gave  him  a  parrot. 
And  he  had  twenty  cannons  for  it, 

For  his  new  galleon. 

Oh  that  I  e'er  might  have  the  hap 
To  get  the  bird  which  in  the  map 

Is  called  the  Indian  ruck  ! 
I'd  give  it  him,  and  hope  to  be 
As  rich  as  Guise  or  Livine, 

Or  else  I  had  ill-luck. 

Birds  round  about  his  chamber  stand. 
And  he  them  feeds  with  his  own  hand, 

'Tis  his  humility  ; 
And,  if  they  do  want  anything, 
They  need  but  whistle  for  their  king. 

And  he  comes  presently. 

But  now,  then,  for  these  parts  he  must 
Be  enstyled  Lewis  the  Just, 

Great  Henry's  lawful  heir  ; 
When,  to  his  style  to  add  more  words, 
They'd  better  call  him  King  of  Birds 

Than  of  the  great  Navarre. 

He  hath  besides  a  pretty  quirk. 
Taught  him  by  nature,  how  to  work 

In  iron  with  much  ease. 
Sometimes  to  the  forge  he  goes. 
There  he  knocks  and  there  he  blows, 

And  makes  both  locks  and  keys  ; 

Which  puts  a  doubt  in  every  one 
Whether  he  be  IVIars'  or  Vulcan's  son,- 

Some  few  believe  his  mother  ; 
But,  let  them  all  say  what  they  will, 
I  came  resolved,  and  so  think  still, 

As  much  the  one  as  th'  other. 

The  people  too  dislike  the  youth,] 
Alleging  reasons,  for,  in  tnitli. 

Mothers  should  honoured  be  ; 
Yet  others  say  he  loves  licr  rather 
As  well  as  e'er  she  loved  lier  father, 

And  that's  notoriously. 


yo  CORBET. 

His  (nu'i'u,  a  iMc-lly  li(ll<'  ■wciu'li, 

\V:is  luiin  ill  Spain,  speaks  litllo  ['"rcncli, 

She's  ucV'i  iil^f  li>  Ih-  mollu-r  ; 
Foi'  her  iiieesdioiis  lioiisc  cmiiil  not 
Have  cliiKlroii  which  were  not  begot 

l?y  uncle  oi  by  biolhcr. 

Nor  why  should   1  ,ewis,  beinq;  so  just:, 
Content  hiuiseir  to  taUe  his  lust 

W'ith  his  l.iuiiia's  mate, 
Aiul  sulVer  his  little  pretty  (jueen 
J''roin  all  iiev  raee  that  yet  iialh  been 

So  to  ilei;onerale  i" 

'Twcrc  charity  for  to  be  known 
'To  love  others'  ehililien  as  his  own 

Aiul  why?     It  is  no  shame  ; 
Unless  that  he  would  greater  be 
Than  was  his  father  llenery. 

Who,  men  thoiiL;hl,  ilid  the  same. 


FAREWELL  TO   llIE  FAIRIES. 

"  F.VKi'.wi  I.I,,  rewards  and  fairies  !" 

(.'lood  lumsewives  now  may  .say, 
For  now  foul  shits  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  us  they. 
And,  thouj^h  they  sweep  theiv  hearths  no  less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  ilo, 
Vet  wln)  of  late,  for  cleanliness, 

i'inds  sixpence  in  her  shoe? 

l.anu'iit,  lament,  old  Abbeys, 

The  laiiies  lost  command  ! 
They  did  but  chan!;e  priests'  babies, 

lUit  some  have  chanL;ed  your  land  ; 
And  all  your  children  stoln  from  thence 

Arc  now  grown  Puritans  ; 
Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 

For  love  of  your  domains. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both, 

Yon  merry  were  and  glad. 
So  little  care  of  sleeji  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had  ; 
When  'l\)in  came  home  from  labour, 

Ov  Cis  to  milking  rose. 
Then  merrily  went  their  tabor. 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  .ind  roundel.ays 
Of  theirs,  whicli  yet  remain, 


CORBET.  fj! 


Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain  ; 
But,  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later  James,  tame  in. 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

Ey  which  wc  note  the  fairieij 

Were  of  the  old  profession. 
Their  s^-^ngs  were  Ave-Maiies, 

TTieir  dances  were  procession  : 
iJut  now,  alas  !  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  f(one  beyond  the  seas  ; 
Or  further  for  religion  fled, 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  tell-tale  in  their  company 

They  never  could  endure, 
And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 

Their  mirth  was  punished  sure  ; 
It  was  a  jast  and  Christian  deed 

To  pinch  such  black  and  blue  : 
Oh  how  the  commonwealth  doth  neefl 

Such  justices  as  you  ! 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  THOMAS  JONCE.i 

Here,  for  the  nonce. 
Came  Thornas  Jonce, 

In  St.  Giles'  church  to  lie. 
None  Welsh  before, 
None  Welshman  more. 

Till  Shon  Clerk  die. 

I'll  toll  the  bell, 
I'll  ring  his  knell ; 
He  died  well, 
He's  saved  from  hell ; 
And  so  farewell 

Tom  Jonce. 


'  Thf/mas  Jonce  (Jones),  a  WeUh  clergymajf,  who  lived  in  St.  Gik»'  parish, 
Oxford. 


92  CAREW. 


THOMAS  CAREW. 

[Born  towards  15S9,  died  in  1639.  Carew  was  in  great  favour  with  Charles 
I.  and  his  court ;  a  man  of  pleasure,  gallantry,  fancy,  and  wit.  When  these 
allurements  came  to  their  close  in  a  mortal  illness,  very  different  Cares  possessed 
him,  and  he  died  an  "edifying"  death]. 

TO  A.  D.,  UNREASONABLY  DISTRUSTFUL  OF  HER  OWN 

BEAUTY. 

1'"air  Doris,  break  thy  glass  ;  it  hath  perplexed, 

With  a  dark  comment,  beauty's  clearest  text ; 

It  hath  not  told  thy  face's  story  true, 

But  brought  false  copies  to  thy  jealous  view. 

No  colour,  feature,  lovely  hair,  or  grace, 

That  ever  yet  adorned  a  beauteous  face, 

But  thou  must  read  in  thine,  or  justly  doubt 

Thy  glass  hath  been  suborned  to  leave  it  out ; 

But,  if  it  offer  to  thy  nice  survey 

A  spot,  a  stain,  a  blemish,  or  decay. 

It  not  belongs  to  thee — the  treacherous  light 

Or  faithless  stone  abuse  thy  credulous  sight. 

Perhaps  the  magic  of  thy  face  hath  wrought 

Upon  the  enchanted  crystal,  and  so  brought 

Fantastic  shadows  to  delude  thine  eyes 

With  airy  repercussive  sorceries  ; 

Or  else  the  enamoured  image  pines  away 

For  love  of  the  fair  object,  and  so  may 

Wax  pale  and  wan,  and,  though  the  substance  grow 

Lively  and  fresh,  that  may  consume  with  woe. 

Give  then  no  faith  to  the  false  specular  stone. 

But  let  thy  beauties  by  the  effects  be  known. 

Look,  sweetest  Doris,  on  my  lovesick  heart ; 

In  that  true  mirror  see  how  fair  thou  art. 

There,  by  Love's  never-erring  pencil  drawn, 

Shalt  thou  behold  thy  face,  like  the  early  dawn. 

Shoot  through  the  shady  covert  of  thy  hair, 

Enamellmg  and  perfuming  the  calm  air 

With  pearls  and  roses,  till  thy  suns  display 

Their  lids,  and  let  out  the  imprisoned  day  ; 

Whilst  Delphic  priests,  enlightened  by  their  theme, 

In  amorous  numbers  court  thy  golden  beam, 

And  from  Love's  altars  clouds  of  sighs  arise 

In  smoking  incense  to  adore  thine  eyes. 

If  then  love  How  from  beauty  as  the  effect, 

How  canst  thou  tlie  resistless  cause  suspect  ? 

Who  would  not  brand  that  fool  that  should  contend 

There  was  no  fire  where  smoke  and  flames  ascend  ? 

Distrust  is  worse  than  scorn  ;  not  to  believe 

My  harms  is  greater  wrong  than  not  to  grieve  ; 

What  cure  can  for  my  festering  sore  be  found, 

Whilst  thou  bcliev'st  thy  beauty  cannot  wound? 


CAREW.  93 


Such  humble  thoughts  more  cruel  tyrants  prove 

Than  all  the  pride  that  e'er  usurped  in  love ; 

For  beauty's  herald  he>-e  denounceth  war, — 

There  are  false  spies  betray  me  to  a  snare. 

If  fire  disguised  in  balls  of  snow  were  hurled, 

It  unsuspected  might  consume  the  world  ; 

Where  our  prevention  ends,  danger  begins. 

So  wolves  in  sheep's,   lions  in  asses'  skins, 

Might  far  more  mischief  work,  because  less  feared  ; 

Those  the  whole  flock,  these  might  kill  all  the  herd. 

Appear  then  as  thou  art,  break  through  this  cloud, 

Confess  thy  beauty,  though  thou  thence  grow  proud  ; 

Be  fair  though  scornful  ;  rather  let  me  find 

Thee  cruel  tlian  thus  mild,  and  more  unkind  ; 

Thy  cruelty  doth  only  me  defy, 

But  these  dull  thoughts  thee  to  thyself  deny. 

Whether  thou  mean  to  barter  or  bestow 

Thyself,  'tis  fit  thou  thine  own  value  know. 

I  will  not  cheat  thee  of  thyself,  nor  pay 

Less  for  thee  than  thou  art  worth  ;  thou  shalt  not  say 

That  is  but  brittle  glass  which  I  have  found 

By  strict  enquiry  a  firm  diamond. 

I'll  trade  with  no  such  Indian  fool  as  sells 

Gold,  pearls,  and  precious  stones,  for  beads  and  bells  ; 

Nor  will  I  take  a  present  from  your  hand 

Which  you  or  prize  not  or  not  understand. 

It  not  endears  your  bounty  that  I  do 

Esteem  your  gift,  unless  you  do  so  too  ; 

You  undervalue  me  when  you  bestow 

On  me  what  you  nor  care  for,  nor  yet  know. 

No,  lovely  Doris,  change  thy  thoughts,  and  be 

In  love  first  with  thyself,  and  then  with  me. 

You  are  afflicted  that  you  are  not  fair, 

And  I  as  much  tormented  that  you  are. 

What  I  admire  you  scorn  ;  what  I  love,  hate  ; 

Through  different  faiths,  both  share  an  equal  fate. 

Fast  to  the  truth,  which  you  renounce,  I  stick ; 

I  die  a  martyr,  you  an  heretic. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  G.  N.,  FROM  WREST. 

I  BREATHE,  sweet  Ghib,  the  temperate  air  of  Wrest, 
Where  I,  no  more  with  raging  storms  oppressed. 
Wear  the  cold  nights  out  by  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
On  the  bleak  mountains  where  fierce  tempests  breed, 
And  everlasting  winter  dwells  ;  where  mild 
Favonius  and  the  vemal  winds,  exiled, 
Did  never  spread  their  wings  ;  but  the  wild  north 
Brings  sterile  fern,  thistles,  and  brambles  forth. 


94  CARE  IV. 


Here,  steeped  in  balmy  dew,  the  pregnant  earth 

Sends  forth  her  teeming  womb  a  flowery  birth  ; 

And,  clierished  with  the  warm  sun's  quickening  heat, 

Her  porous  bosom  doth  rich  odours  sweat, 

Whose  perfumes  through  the  ambient  air  diffuse 

Such  native  aromatics  as  we  use 

No  foreign  gums,  nor  essence  fetched  from  far, 

No  volatile  spirits,  nor  compounds  that  are 

Adulterate  ;  but,  as  nature's  cheap  expense. 

With  far  more  genuine  sweets  refresh  the  sense. 

Such  pure  and  uncompounded  beauties  bless 

This  mansion  with  an  useful  comeliness, 

Devoid  of  art ;  for  here  the  architect 

Did  not  with  curious  skill  a  pile  erect 

Of  carved  marble,   touch,  or  porphyry, 

But  built  a  house  for  hospitality. 

No  sumptuous  chimney-piece  of  shining  stone 

Invites  the  stranger's  eye  to  gaze  upon. 

And  coldly  entertains  his  sight ;  but  clear 

And  cheerful  flames  cherish  and  warm  him  here. 

No  Doric  nor  Corinthian  pillars  grace 

With  imagery  this  structure's  naked  face. 

The  lord  and  lady  of  this  place  delight 

Rather  to  be  in  act  than  seem  in  sight. 

Instead  •  of  statues  to  adorn  their  wall. 

They  throng  with  living  men  their  merry  hall, 

Where,  at  large  tables  filled  with  wholesome  meats, 

The  servant,  tenant,  and  kind  neighbour,  eats. 

Some  of  that  rank  spun  of  a  finer  thread 

Are,  with  the  women,  steward,  and  chaplain,  fed 

With  daintier  cates.      Others  of  better  note, 

Whom  wealth,  parts,   office,  or  the  herald's  coat, 

Have  severed  from  the  common,  freely  sit 

At  the  lord's  table  ;   whose  spread  sides  admit 

A  large  access  of  friends,  to  fill  those  seats 

Of  his  capacious  circle,  filled  with  meats 

Of  clioicest  relish,  till  his  oaken  back 

Under  the  load  of  piled -up  dishes  crack. 

Nor  think,  because  our  pyramids  and  high 
Exalted  turrets  threaten  not  the  sky. 
That  therefore  Wrest  of  narrowness  complains, 
Or  strengthened  walls  ;  for  she  more  numerous  trains 
Of  noble  guests  daily  receives,  and  those 
Can  with  far  more  convenience  dispose. 
Than  prouder  piles,  where  the  vain  builder  spent 
More  cost  in  outward  gay  embellishment 
Than  real  use,  which  was  the  sole  design 
Of  our  contriver,  who  made  things  not  fine, 
But  fit  for  service.     Amalthea's  horn 
Of  plenty  is  not  in  effigy  worn 


CAREW.  95 


Without  the  gate  ;  but  she  within  the  door 

Empties  her  free  and  unexhausted  store. 

Nor,  crowned  with  wheaten  wreaths,  doth  Ceres  stand 

In  stone,  with  a  crook'd  sickle  in  her  hand  ; 

Nor,  on  a  marble  tun,  his  face  besmeared 

With  grapes,  is  curled,  unscissored  Bacchus  reared  : 

We  offer  not  in  emblems  to  the  eyes, 

But  to  the  taste,  those  useful  deities. 

We  press  the  juicy  god,  and  quaff  his  blood, 

And  grind  the  yellow  goddess  into  food. 

Yet  we  decline  not  all  the  work  of  art ; 

But,  where  more  bounteous  Nature  bears  a  part, 

And  guides  her  handmaid  if  she  but  dispense 

Fit  matter,  she  with  care  and  diligence 

Employs  her  skill.      For  where  the  neighbour  source 

Pours  forth  her  waters,  she  directs  their  course, 

And  entertains  the  flowing  streams  in  deep 

And  spacious  channels,   where  they  slowly  creep 

In  snaky  windings,  as  the  shelving  ground 

Leads  them  in  circles,   till  they  twice  surround 

This  island  mansion  ;   which,  i'  the  centre  placed, 

Is  with  a  double  crystal  heaven  embraced, 

In  which  our  watery  constellations  float. 

Our  fishes,  swans,  our  waterman  and  boat, 

Envied  by  those  above,  who  wish  to  slake 

Their  star-burnt  limbs  in  our  refreshing  lake. 

But  they  stick  fast,  nailed  to  the  barren  sphere  ; 

Whilst  our  increase,  in  fertile  waters  here, 

Disport  and  wander  freely  where  they  please, 

Within  the  circuit  of  our  narrow  seas. 

With  various  trees  we  fringe  the  water's  brink, 
Whose  thirsty  roots  the  soaking  moisture  drink  ; 
And  whose  extended  boughs,  in  equal  ranki. 
Yield  fruit  and  shade  and  beauty  to  the  baftKS. 
On  this  side  young  Vertumnus  sits,  and  coiirts 
His  ruddy-cheeked  Pomona  ;  Zephyr  sports 
On  the  other  with  loved  Flora,  yielding  there 
Sweets  for  the  smell,  s^veets  for  the  palate  here. 
But,  did  you  taste  the  high  and  mighty  drink 
Which  from  that  fountain  flows,  you'd  clearly  think 
The  god  of  wine  did  his  plump  clusters  bring. 
And  crush  the  Falerne  grape  into  our  spring  ; 
Or  else,  disguised  in  watery  robes,  did  swim 
To  Ceres'  bed,  and  make  her  big  of  him, 
Begetting  to  himself  on  her  ;  for  know 
Our  vintage  here  in  March  doth  nothing  owe 
To  theirs  in  autumn,  but  our  fire  boils  here 
As  lusty  liquor  as  the  sun  makes  there. 

Thus  I  enjoy  myself,  and  taste  the  fruit 
Of  this  bless'd  peace  ;  whilst,  toiled  in  the  pursuit 


96  CAREW. 


Of  bucks  and  stags,  th'  emblem  of  war,  you  strive 
To  keep  the  memory  of  our  arms  alive. 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY. 

In  Love's  name  you  are  charged  hereby 

To  make  a  speedy  hue  and  cry 

After  a  face  which,  t'other  day, 

Stole  my  wandering  heart  away. 

To  direct  you,  these,  in  brief. 

Are  ready  marks  to  know  the  thief. 

Her  hair,  a  net  of  beams,  would  prove 
Strong  enough  to  captive  Jove 
In  his  eagle's  shape  ;  her  brow 
Is  a  comely  field  of  snow  ; 
Her  eye  so  rich,  so  pure  a  grey, 
Every  beam  creates  a  day  ; 
And  if  she  but  sleep  (not  when 
The  sun  sets)  'tis  night  again. 
In  her  cheeks  are  to  be  seen 
Of  flowers  both  the  king  and  qu^en. 
Thither  by  the  Graces  led, 
And  freshly  laid  in  nuptial  bed  ; 
On  whom  lips  like  nymphs  do  wait 
Who  deplore  their  virgin  state  ; 
Oft  they  blush, — and  blush  for  this, 
That  they  one  another  kiss. 
But  observe  :  besides  the  rest, 
You  shall  know  this  felon  best 
By  her  tongue .;   for,  if  your  ear 
Once  a  heavenly  music  hear, 
Such  as  neither  gods  nor  men. 
But  from  that  voice,  shall  hear  again — 
That,  that  is  she.     Oh  straight  surprise, 
And  bring  her  unto  Love's  assize. 
If  you  let  her  go,  she  may 
Antedate  the  latter  day. 
Fate  and  philosophy  control, 
And  leave  the  world  without  a  souL 


ROWLANDS.  97 


SAMUEL  ROWLANDS. 

[A  prolific  humorous  and  satirical  writer  of  the  17th  century]^ 

THE  CONJURER  COZENED. 

A  SHIFTING  knave  about  the  town 

Did  challenge  wondrous  skill  : 

To  tell  men's  fortunes  and  good  haps, 

He  had  the  stars  at  will. 

What  day  was  best  to  travel  on, 

Which  fit  to  choose  a  wife  ; 

If  violent  or  natural 

A  man  should  end  his  life  ; 

Success  of  any  suit  in  law. 

Which  party's  cause  prevails  ; 

WHien  it  is  good  to  pick  one's  teeth. 

And  ill  to  pare  his  nails. 

So  cunningly  he  played  the  knave 

That  he  deluded  many 

With  shifting,  base,  and  cozening  tricks  ; 

For  skill  he  had  not  any. 

Amongst  a  crew  of  simple  gulls, 
That  plied  him  to  their  cost, 
A  butcher  comes  and  craves  his  help, 
That  had  some  cattle  lost. 
Ten  groats  he  gave  him  for  his  fee  ; 
And  he  to  conjure  goes, 
With  characters,  and  vocables. 
And  divers  antic  shows. 
The  butcher,  in  a  beastly  fear. 
Expected  spirits  still, 
And  wished  himself  within  his  shop, 
Some  sheep  or  calf  to  kill. 
At  length  out  of  an  old  blind  hole, 
Behind  a  painted  cloth, 
A  devil  comes  with  roaring  voice, 
Seeming  exceeding  wroth. 
With  squibs  and  crackers  rounc'J-about 
Wild-fire  he  did  send  ; 
Which  swaggering  Ball,  the  butcher's  dog, 
So  highly  did  offend 
That  he  upon  the  devil  flies. 
And  shakes  his  horns  so  sore, 
Even  like  an  ox,  most  terrible 
He  made  hobgoblin  roar. 

The  cunning  man  cries,  ' '  For  God's  love,  help  ! 
LTnto  your  mastiff  call  ! '' 
"  Fight  dog,  fight  devil  !  "  butcher  said, 
And  claps  his  hands  at  Ball. 
The  dog  most  cruelly  tore  his  flesh, 

G 


gS  IIERRICK. 

The  devil  went  to  wrack, 

And  looked  like  a  tattered  rogue, 

With  ne'er  a  rag  on's  back. 

"  Give  me  my  money  back  again, 

Thou  slave,"  the  butcher  said, 

"  Or  I  will  see  your  devil's  heart,^ 

Before  he  can  be  laid  ! 

He  gets  not  back  again  to  hell. 

Ere  I  my  money  have  ;  ,' 

And  I  will  have  some  interest  too, 

Besides  mine  own  I  gave. 

Deliver  first  mine  own  ten  groats, 

And  then  a  crown  to  boot : 

I  smell  your  devil's  knavery  out, 

He  wants  a  cloven  foot."  , 

The  conjurer,  with  all  his  heart, 
The  money  back  repays, 
And  gives  five  shillings  of  his  own  : 
To  whom  the  butcher  says, — 
"  Farewell,  most  scurvy  conjurer  ! 
Think  on  my  valiant  deed. 
Which  has  done  more  than  English  George 
That  made  the  dragon  bleed. 
-He  and  his  horse,  the  story  tells, 
Did  but  a  serpent  slay  : 
I  and  my  dog  the  devil  spoiled, — 
We  two  have  got  the  day." 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 

[Born  in  1591,  son  of  a  goldsmith  in  Cheapside,  of  good  fsmily  connexions  ; 
died  towards  1674.  Herrick  entered  the  church,  in  v/hat  year  is  uncertain  :  the 
year  1629  is  the  first  clear  date  relating  to  this  matter,  when  Herrick,  aged 
thirty-eight,  was  appointed  to  the  living  of  Dean  Prior,  Devonshire.  In  1648 
he  was  ejected  as  a  royrlist  ;  but  restored  in  t66o.  He  lived  a  bachelor:  much 
more  (if  we  may  judge  from  his  verses)  in  the  style  of  a  jovial  celibate  than  of 
a  clerical  ascetic.  A  certain  section  of  his  poems  is  religious  or  moral ;  the 
great  majority  of  them,  however,  testify  to  a  keen  enjoyment  of  the  good 
things  of  this  world,  whether  simple  or  refined.  Many  of  his  compositions  are, 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term,  trifles  ;  others  are  at  least  exquisite  trifles ; 
some  are  not  trifles,  and  are  exquisite.  After  more  than  a  century  of  neglect, 
ensuing  upon  their  first  ample  popularity,  Herrick's  writings  have  for  years 
been  kept  freshened  v/ith  a  steady  current  of  literary  l.tudation-  -certainly  not 
unjustified,  so  far  as  their  finer  qualities  go,  but  tending  a  little  to  the  indis- 
enminate]. 

UPON  A  WIFE  THAT  DIED  MAD  WITH  JEALOUSY. 

In  this  little  vault  she  lies 
Here,  with  all  her  jealousies  ; 
Quiet  yet ;  but,  if  ye  make 
Any  noise,  they  bolli  will  wake, 
And  such  spirits  raise  'twill  then 
Trouble  Death  to  lay  again. 


HERRTCK 


UPON  PAGGET. 

Pagget,  a  schoolboy,  got  a  sword,  and  then 
He  vowed  destruction  both  to  birch  and  men  ; 
Who  would  not  think  this  younker  fierce  to  fight? 
Yet,  coming  home  but  somewhat  late  last  night, 
"  Untruss,"  his  master  bade  him  ;  and  that  word 
Made  him  take  up  his  shirt,  lay  down  his  sword. 


99 


TO  THE  DETRACTOR. 

Where  others  love  and  praise  my  verses,  still 

Thy  long  black  thumb-nail  marks  'em  out  for  ill ; 

A  fellon  take  it,  or  some  white-flaw  come 

For  to  unslate  or  to  untile  that  thumb  ! 

But  cry  thee  mercy  ;  exercise  thy  nails 

To  scratch  or  claw,  so  that  thy  tongue  not  rails. 

Some  numbers  prurient  are,  and  some  of  these 

Are  wanton  with  their  itch  ;  scratch,  and  'twill  please. 


THE  INVITATION. 

To  sup  with  thee  thou  didst  me  home  invite, 

And  mad'st  a  promise  that  mine  appetite 

Should  meet  and  tire  on  such  lautitious  meat 

The  like  not  Heliogabalus  did  eat  ; 

And  richer  wine  wouldst  give  to  me,  thy  guest. 

Than  Roman  Sylla  poured  out  at  his  feast. 

I  came,  'tis  true  ;  and  looked  for  fowl  of  price. 

The  bustard,  phoenix,  bird  of  paradise ; 

And  for  no  less  than  aromatic  wine 

Of  maiden's-blush  commixed  with  jessamine. 

Clean  was  the  hearth  ;  the  mantel  larded  jet, 

Which,  wanting  Lar  and  smoke,  hung  weeping  wet. 

At  last,  i'the  noon  of  winter,  did  appear 

A  ragg'd  soused  neat's-foot  with  sick  vinegar  ; 

And  in  a  burnished  flagonet  stood  by 

Beer  small  as  comfort,  dead  as  charity. 

At  which  amazed,  and  pondering  on  the  food, — 

How  cold  it  was,  and  how  it  chilled  my  blood, — 

I  cursed  the  master,  and  I  damned  the  soucc, 

And  swore  I'd  got  the  ague  of  the  house. 

Well,  when  to  eat  thou  dost  me  next  desire, 

I'll  bring  a  fever,  since  thou  keep'st  no  fuc. 


lOO  QUA  RLE  S. 


FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

'  [Born  in  1592,  died  in  1644.  Chiefly  known  as  the  author  of  the  Emblems. 
Quarles  held  the  post  of  cup-bearer  to  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  daughter  of 
James  I.  ;  afterwards  of  secretary  to  Archbishop  Usher  in  Ireland,  andof  Chron- 
ologer  to  the  City  of  London.  He  adhered  to  the  royal  party  in  the  civil  war  : 
hence  his  property  was  sequestrated,  and  his  mishaps  are  supposed  to  have 
accelerated  his  death]. 

HEY,  THEN,  UP  GO  WE. 

Know  this,  my  brethfen,  heaven  is  clear, 

And  all  the  clouds  are  gone  ;  , 

The  righteous  man  shall  flourish, 

Good  days  are  coming  on. 
Then  come,  my  brethren,  and  be  glad. 

And  eke  rejoice  with  me  ; 
Lawn  sleeves  and  rochets  shall  go  down. 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 

We'll  break  the  windows  which  the  whore 

Of  Babylon  hath  painted  ; 
And,  when  the  popi.sh  saints  are  down, 

Then  Barrow  shall  be  sainted  ; 
There's  neither  cross  nor  crucifix 

Shall  stand  for  men  to  see, 
Rome's  trash  and  trumpery  shall  go  down, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 

Whate'er  the  Popish  hands  have  built 

Our  hammers  shall  undo  ; 
We'll  break  their  pipes  and  burn  their  copes, 

And  pull  down  churches  too  ; 
We'll  exercise  within  the  groves,    ■ 

And  teach  beneath  a  tree  ; 
We'll  make  a  pulpit  of  a  cask. 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 

We'll  put  down  Universities, 

Where  learning  is  professed, 
Because  they  practise  and  maintain 

The  language  of  the  Beast ; 
We'll  drive  the  doctors  out  of  doors, 

And  all  that  learned  be  ; 
We'll  cry  all  arts  and  learning  down, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  I 

We'll  down  with  deans  and  prebends,  too, 

And  I  i^ejoice  to  tell  ye 
We  then  shall  get  our  fill  of  pig, 

And  capons  for  the  belly. 
We'll  burn  the  Fathers'  weighty  tomes, 

And  make  the  Schoolmen  free  ; 
We'll  down  with  all  that  smells  of  wit, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 


WALLER.  loi 


If  once  the  Antichristian  crew 

Be  crushed  and  overthrown, 
"We'll  teach  the  nobles  how  to  stoop, 

And  keep  the  gentry  down. 
Good  manners  have  an  ill  report. 

And  turn  to  pride,  we  see  ; 
We'll  therefore  put  good  manners  down, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 

Tlie  name  of  lords  shall  be  abhorred. 

For  every  man's  a  brother; 
No  reason  why  in  Church  and  State 

One  man  should  rule  another  ; 
But,  when  the  change  of  government 

Shall  set  our  fingers  free, 
We'll  make  these  wanton  sisters  stoop, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  \\q  ! 

What  though  the  King  and  Parliament 

Do  not  accord  together. 
We  have  more  cause  to  be  content, — 

This  is  our  sunshine  weather : 
For,  if  that  reason  should  take  place. 

And  they  should  once  agree. 
Who  would  be  in  a  Roundhead's  case  ? 

For  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 

What  should  we  do,  then,  in  this  case  ? 

Let's  put  it  to  a  venture  ; 
If  that  we  hold  out  seven  years'  space 

We'll  sue  out  our  indenture. 
A  time  may  come  to  make  us  rue, 

And  time  may  set  us  free, — 
Except  the  gallows  claim  his  due, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we  ! 


EDMUND  WALLER. 

[Born  on  3d  March  1605,  died  on  21st  October  1687.  Was  not  only  an  ad- 
mired poet  and  man  of  fashion,  but  also  an  active  though  not  highly  consistent 
politician;  negociating  for  the  Parliament,  plotting  for  Charles  I.,  lauding 
Cromwell,  and  acclaiming  Charles  II.  As  a  poet,  Waller  is  now  chiefly  re- 
membered by  his  delightful  lyric,  "  Go,  lovely  rose,"  and  as  the  poetic  suitor 
of  "  Saccharissa"--/.  e.,  Lady  Dorothy  Sidney,  whom  he  courted,  but  did  not 
secure  in  marriage]. 

AN  EPIGRAM  ON  A  PAINTED  LADY  WITH  ILL  TEETH. 
Were  men  so  dull  they  could  not  see 
That  Lyce  painted, — should  they  flee, 
Like  simple  birds,  into  a  net 
So  grossly  woven  and  ill  set, — 
Her  own  teeth  would  undo  the  knot, 
And  lei  all  go  that  ihc  had  got. 


I02  WASHBOURNE. 

Those  teeth  fair  Lyce  must  not  show 
If  she  would  bite  ;  her  lovers,  though 
Like  birds  they  stoop  at  seeming  grapes, 
Are  disabused  when  first  she  gapes  ; 
The  rotten  bones  discovered  there 
Show  'tis  a  painted  sepulchre. 


THOMAS  WASHBOURNE. 

[Bom  in  1606,  died  in  1687.  He  belonged  to  a  good  Worcestershire  family, 
entered  holy  orders,  and  was  on  the  royalist  side,  in  the  contest  between  the 
parliament  and  the  king.     His  volume  of  verse  is  named  Divitie  Poems]. 

UPON  THE  PEOPLE'S  DENYING  OF  TITHES  IN  SOME 
PLACES,  AND  EJECTING  THEIR  PASTORS. 

The  shepherd  heretofore  did  keep 

And  watch  the  sheep  : 
Whiles  they,  poor  creatui^es,  did  rejoice 

To  hear  his  voice  ; 
But  now,  they,  that  were  used  to  stray, 

Do  know  the  way 
So  perfectly  that  they  can  guide 
The  shepherd  when  he  goes  aside. 

To  pay  the  tenth  fleece  they  refuse, 

As  shepherd's  dues. 
They  know  a  trick  worth  two  of  that ; 

They  can  grow  fat. 
And  wear  their  fleece  on  their  own^back, 

But  let  him  lack 
Meat,  drink,  and  cloth,  and  everything 
Which  should  support  and  comfort  bring. 

What  silly  animals  be  these. 

Themselves  to  please 
With  fancies  that  they  nothing  need, 

But  safely  feed 
Without  the  shepherd's  careful  eye  ! 

When  lo  !  they  die 
Ere  they  be  ware,  being  made  a  prey 
Unto  the  wolf  by  night  and  day. 

Besides,  they're  subject  to  the  rot. 

And  God  knows  what 
Diseases  more,  which  they  endure, 

And  none  can  cure 
But  the  shepherd's  skilful  hand  ; 

In  need  they  stand 
Of  his  physic  and  his  power 
To  heal  and  help  them  every  hour. 


BUTLER.  X03 


The  danger  set  before  their  eyes,  — 

Let  them  be  wise, 
Not  trusting  to  their  owii  direction 

Nor  protection, 
But  to  his  rod,  his  staff,  submit ; 

His  art,  his  wit, 
For  every  sore  a  salve  hath  found. 
And  will  preserve  them  safe  and  sound. 


SAMUEL  BUTLER. 

(The  author  ol  Hiidibras  was  born  in  16 12  at  Strensham,  Worcestershire, 
son  of  a  farmer;  died  in  London,  25  September  1680]. 

THE  ELEPHANT  IN  THE  MOON.l 

A  learn'd  society  of  late, 

The  glory  of  a  foreign  state, 

Agreed,  upon  a  simimer's  night. 

To  search  the  Moon  by  her  own  light; 

To  make  an  inventory  of  all 

Her  real  estate,  and  personal ; 

And  make  an  accurate  survey 

Of  all  her  lajids,  and  how  they  lay. 

As  true  as  that  of  Ireland,  where 

The  sly  surveyors  stole  a  shire  :^ 

To  observe  her  country,  how  'twas  planted, 

With  what  she  abounded  moat,  or  wanted ; 

And  make  the  proper'st  observations 

For  settleing  of  new  plantations. 

If  the  society  should  incline 

To  attempt  so  glorious  a  design. 

This  was  the  purpose  of  their  meeting. 
For  which  they  chose  a  time  as  fitting; 
When  at  the  full  her  radiant  light 
And  influence  too  were  at  their  height. 
And  now  the  lofty  tube,  the  scale 
With  which  they  heaven  itself  assail, 
Was  mounted  full  against  the  Moon ; 
And  all  stood  ready  to  fall  on, 
Impatient  who  should  have  the  honour 
To  plant  an  ensign  first  upon  her. 
Wiien  one,^  who  for  his  deep  belief 
Was  virtuoso  then  in  chief, 

1  This  is  a  satire  on  the  Royal  Society,  first  founded  in  1645,  and  incorporated 
by  royal  charter  in  1662.  The  notes  here  fjiven  are  (very  greatly)  condensed 
from  those  in  Mr.  Robert  Bell's  caryful  edition  of  Butler. 

2  Probably  an  allusion  to  Sir  WiUiam  Petty,  wlio  was  employed  to  take  a 
survey  of  Ireland  in  Cromwell's  time,  and  was  afterwards  impeached  for  mis- 
management in  the  distribution  and  allotments  of  land. 

3  Lord  r.rouncker,  the  first  President  of  the  Royal  Society  under  the  char- 
ter.    He  was  a  zealous  member,  and  dibtinguished  himself  as  a  mathematician. 


ro4  BUTLER. 


Approved  the  most  profoxmd  and  wise 

To  solve  impossibilities, 

Advancing  gravely,  to  apply 

To  the  optic  glass  his  judging  eye, 

Cried  "  Strange  !" — then  reinforced  his  sight 

Against  the  Moon  with  all  his  might, 

And  bent  his  penetrating  brow. 

As  if  he  meant  to  gaze  her  through  ; 

When  all  the  rest  began  to  admire, 

And,  like  a  train,  from  him  took  fire, 

Surprised  with  wonder,  beforehand. 

At  what  they  did  not  understand, 

Cried  out,  impatient  to  know  what 

The  matter  was  they  wondered  at. 

Quoth  he,  "  The  inhabitants  o'  the  Moon ; — 
Who,  when  the  Sun  shines  hot  at  noon,^ 
Do  live  in  cellars  under  ground 
Of  eight  miles  deep  and  eighty  round, 
In  which  at  once  they  fortify 
Against  the  sun  and  the  enemy, 
Which  they  count  towns  and  cities  there, — 
Because  their  people's  civiller 
Than  those  rude  peasants  that  are  found 
To  live  upon  the  upper  ground, 
Called  Privolvans,^  with  whom  they  are 
Perpetually  in  open  war. 
And  now  both  armies,  highly  enraged, 
Are  in  a  bloody  fight  engaged. 
And  many  fall  on  both  sides  slain, 
As  by  the  glass  'tis  clear  and  plain. 
Look  quickly  then,  that  every  one 
May  see  the  fight  before  'tis  done." 

With  that  a  great  philosopher, 
Admired  and  famous  far  and  near,^ 
As  one  of  singular  invention, 
But  universal  comprehension, 
Applied  one  eye  and  half  a  nose 
Unto  the  optic  engine  close. 
For  he  had  lately  undertook 
To  prove,  and  publish  in  a  book. 
That  men  whose  natural  eyes  are  out 
May,  by  more  powerful  art,  be  brought 

1  The  notion  of  digging  caverns  to  seek  shelter  in  from  the  great  heat  of  the 
sun  is  a  satire  upon  one  of  Kepler's  speculations. 

2  Kepler  called  the  earth  volva,  because  of  its  diurnal  revolutions  ;  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  moon  who  live  on  the  side  facing  the  earth  he  named  Sithiolvani, 
because  they  enjoy  the  sight  of  our  world  ;  and  the  others,  who  live  on  the 
opposite  side,  he  named  Privolvani,  because  they  are  deprived  of  that  pri- 
vilege. 

3  There  is  some  reason  to  think  that  Sir  Christopher  Wren  is  here  glanced 
at,  but  some  of  the  details  apply  to  Sir  Kcnehn  Digby  instead. 


BUTLER  los 


To  see  with  the  empty  holes  as  plain 

As  if  their  eyes  were  in  again, 

And,  if  they  chanced  to  fail  of  those, 

To  make  an  optic  of  a  nose ; 

As  clearly  it  may,  by  those  that  wear 

But  spectacles,  be  made  appear  ; 

By  which  both  senses  being  united 

Does  render  them  much  better-sighted. 

This  great  man,  having  fixed  both  sights 

To  view  the  formidable  heights, 

Observed  his  best,  and  then  cried  out, — 

"The  battle's  desperately  fought; 

The  gallant  Subvolvani  rally, 

And  from  their  trenches  make  a  sally 

Upon  the  stubborn  enemy. 

Who  now  begin  to  rout  and  fly. 

These  silly  ranting  Privolvans 

Have  every  summer  their  campaigns, 

And  muster,  like  the  warlike  sons 

Of  Rawhead  and  of  Bloodybones, 

As  numerous  as  Soland  geese 

r  the  islands  of  the  Orcades, 

Courageously  to  make  a  stand. 

And  face  their  neighbours  hand  to  hand, 

Until  the  longed-for  winter's  come; 

And  then  return  in  triumph  home, 

And  spend  the  rest  o'  the  year  in  lies, 

And  vapouring  of  their  victories. 

From  the  old  Arcadians  they're  believed 

To  be,  before  the  Moon,  derived ; 

And,  when  her  orb  was  new  created, 

To  people  her  were  thence  translated. 

For,  as  the  Arcadians  were  reputed 

Of  all  the  Grecians  the  most  stupid. 

Whom  nothing  in  the  world  could  bring 

To  civil  life,  but  fiddleing, 

They  still  retain  the  antique  course 

And  custom  of  their  ancestors  ; 

And  always  sing  and  fiddle  to 

Things  of  the  greatest  weight  they  do." 

While  thus  the  learn'd  man  entertains 
The  assembly  with  the  Privolvans, 
Another  of  as  great  renown 
And  solid  judgment  in  the  Moon, 
That  understood  her  varioui  soils. 
And  which  produced  best  genet-moyles,^ 

1  A  species  of  sweet  ■^pple,  generally  called  moyle.     This  may  be  an  allusion 
'^     '  'n,  who  speaks  of  the  gcnet-inoyle  in  his  Pomona,  a  treatise  on  fruit- 
lexed  to  the  Sylva,  published  ill  1O64  "  by  express  order  of  the  Koyal 


Society 


ic6  BUTLER. 

And  in  the  register  of  fame 

Had  entered  his  long-living  name, — 

After  he  had  pored  long  and  hard 

In  the  engine,  gave  a  start,  and  stared. 

Quoth  he  :  "A  stranger  sight  appears 
Than  e'er  was  seen  in  all  the  spheres, 
A  wonder  more  unparallelled 
Than  ever  mortal  tube  beheld ; 
An  elephant  from  one  of  those 
Two  mighty  armies  is  broke  loose,' 
And  with  the  horror  of  the  fight 
Appeai-s  amazed,  and  in  a  fright  ; 
Look  quickly,  lest  the  sight  of  us 
Should  cause  the  startled  beast  to  imboss^ 
It  is  a  large  one,  far  more  great 
Than  e'er  was  bred  in  Afric  yet ; 
From  which  we  boldly  may  infer 
The  moon  is  much  the  fruitfuUer. 
And,  since  the  mighty  Pyrrhus  brought 
Those  living  castles  first,  'tis  thought, 
Against  the  Romans  in  the  field, 
It  may  an  argument  be  held 
(Arcadia  being  but  a  piece, 
As  his  dominions  were,  of  Greece) 
To  prove  what  this  illustrious  person 
Has  made  so  noble  a  discourse  on ; 
And  amply  satisfied  us  all 
Of  th'  Privolvans'  original. 
That  elephants  are  in  the  Moon, 
Though  we  had  now  discovered  none, 
Is  easily  made  manifest ; 
Since,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
All  other  stars  and  constellations 
Have  cattle  of  all  sorts  of  nations. 
And  heaven,  like  a  Tartars'  horde. 
With  great  and  numerous  droves  is  stored : 
And,  if  the  Moon  produce  by  nature 
A  people  of  so  vast  a  stature, 
'Tis  consequent  she  should  bring  forth 
Far" greater  beasts  too  than  the  earth, 
As  by  the  best  accounts  appears 
Of  all  our  great'st  discoverers  ; 
And  that  those  monstrous  creatures  there 
Are  not  such  rarities  as  here." 

Meanwhile  the  rest  had  had  a  sight 
Of  all  particulars  o'  the  fight ; 

1  The  story  is  related  of  Sir  Paul  Neal,  one  of  the  early  promoters  of  the 
Royal  Society,  who  is  said  to  have  announced  the  discovery  of  an  elephant  in 
the  moon,  which  turned  out  upon  investigation  to  be  a  mouse  that  had  got  into 
the  telescope.  2  Properly  imbosk,  to  hide  in  bushes. 


BUTLER  107 

And  eveiy  man,  with  equal  care, 

Perused  of  the  elephant  his  share, 

Proud  of  his  interest  in  the  glory 

Of  so  miraculous  a  story ; 

When  one  who,  for  his  excellence 

In  heightening  words  and  shadowing  sense, 

And  magnifying  all  he  writ 

With  curious  microscopic  wit, 

Was  masrnified  himself  no  less 

In  home  and  foreign  colleges,^ 

Began,  transported  with  the  twang 

Of  his  o\TO  trillo,  thus  t'  harangue : 

"Most  excellent  and  virtuous  friends, 
This  great  discovery  makes  amends 
For  all  our  unsuccessful  pains, 
And  lost  expense  of  time  and  brains. 
For,  by  this  sole  phenomenon, 
We  have  gotten  ground  upon  the  Moon ; 
And  gained  a  pass,  to  hold  dispute 
Witli  all  the  planets  that  stand  out ; 
To  carry  this  most  virtuous  war 
Home  to  the  door  of  every  star, 
And  plant  the  artillery  of  our  tubes 
Against  their  proudest  magnitudes  ; 
To  stretch  our  victories  beyond 
The  extent  of  planetary  ground ; 
And  fix  our  engines  and  our  ensigns 
Upon  the  fixed  stars'  vast  dimensions, — 
Which  Archimede,  so  long  ago. 
Durst  not  presume  to  wish  to  do, — 
And  prove  if  they  are  other  suns, 
As  some  have  held  opinions, 
Or  windows  in  the  empyreum. 
From  whence  those  bright  efduvias  come — 
Lilie  flames  of  fire,  as  others  guess, 
That  shine  i'  the  mouths  of  furnaces. 
Nor  is  this  all  we  have  achieved, 
But  more,  henceforth  to  be  believed, 
And  have  no  more  our  best  designs, 
Because  they're  ours,  believed  ill  signs. 
To  out-throw,  and  stretch,  and  to  enlarge, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  laid  t'  our  charge; 
Nor  shall  our  ablest  virtuosos 
Prove  arguments  for  coffeehouses ; 
Nor  those  devices  that  are  laid 
Too  truly  on  us,  nor  tliose  made 
Hereafter,  gain  belief  among 
Our  strictest  judges,  right  or  wrong; 

1  Dr.  Hooke,  whose  microscopical  speculations  e-xcited  considerable  notice 
and  discussion,  appears  to  be  indicated  here. 


io8  •  BUTLER. 


Nor  shall  our  past  misfortunes  more 

Be  charged  upon  the  ancient  score  ; 

No  more  our  making  old  dogs  young^ 

Make  men  suspect  us  still  i'  the  wrong  ; 

Nor  new-invented  chariots  draw 

The  boys  to  course  us,  without  law; 

Nor  putting  pigs  to  a  bitch  to  nurse, 

To  turn  'em  into  mongrel-curs, 

Make  them  suspect  our  sculls  are  brittle, 

And  hold  too  much  wit,  or  too  little  ; 

Nor  shall  our  speculations  whether 

An  elder-stick  will  save  the  leather 

Of  schoolboys'  breeches  from  the  rod^ 

Make  all  we  do  appear  as  odd. 

This  one  discovery's  enough 

To  take  all  former  scandals  off. 

But,  since  the  world's  incredulous 

Of  all  our  scrutinies,  and  us. 

And  with  a  prejudice  prevents 

Our  best  and  worst  experiments, 

As  if  th'  were  destined  to  miscarry, 

In  consort  tried,  or  solitary, — 

And  since  it  is  uncertain  when 

Such  wonders  will  occur  again, — 

Let  us  as  cautiously  contrive 

To  draw  an  exact  narrative 

Of  what  we  every  one  can  swear 

Our  eyes  themselves  have  seen  appear, 

That,  when  we  publish  the  account. 

We  all  may  take  our  oaths  upon't." 

This  said,  they  all  with  one  consent 
Agreed  to  draw  up  th'  instrument. 
And,  for  the  general  satisfaction, 
To  print  it  in  the  next  "Transaction." 

But,  whilst  the  chiefs  were  drawing  up 
This  strange  memoir  o'  the  telescope. 
One,  peeping  in  the  tube  by  chance, 
Beheld  the  elepliant  advance, 
And  from  the  west  side  of  the  Moon 
To  the  east  was  in  a  moment  gone. 
Tlris,  being  related,  gave  a  stop 
To  what  the  rest  were  drawing  up ; 
And  every  man,  amazed  anew 
How  it  could  possibly  be  true 
That  any  beast  should  run  a  race 

1  This  was  one  of  the  experiments  actually  made  under  the  direction  of  the 
Society  in  1666,  by  transfusion  of  blood  from  one  dog  into  another. 

2  The  allusion  is  to  the  custom  of  wearing  a  sprig  of  elder  in  the  breeches, 
pocket,  as  an  effectual  preventive  against  what  is  called  losing  leather,  or  gall- 
ing, in  riding. 


BUTLER.  109 


So  monstrous  in  so  short  a  space, 

Resolved,  howe'er,  to  make  it  good, — 

At  least,  as  possible  as  he  could  ; 

And  rather  his  own  eyes  condemn 

Than  question  what  he  had  seen  with  them. 

"While  all  were  thus  resolyed,  a  man 
Of  great  renown  there  thus  began  : — 

"  'Tis  strange,  I  grant  !     But  who  can  say 
What  cannot  be,  what  can  and  may  ? 
Especially  at  so  hugely  vast 
A  distance  as  this  wonder's  placed  ; 
Where  the  least  error  of  the  sight 
May  show  things  false,  but  never  right ; 
Nor  can  we  try  them,  so  far  off, 
By  any  sublunary  proof. 
For  who  can  say  that  nature  there 
Has  the  same  laws  she  goes  by  here  ? 
Nor  is  it  like  she  has  infused, 
In  every  species  there  produced. 
The  same  efforts  she  doth  confer 
Upon  the  same  productions  here  : 
Since  those  with  us,  of  several  nations. 
Have  such  prodigious  variations. 
And  she  affects  so  much  to  use 
Variety  in  all  she  does. 
Hence  may  be  inferred  that,  though  I  grant 
We've  seen  i'  the  Moon  an  elephant, 
That  elephant  may  differ  so 
From  those  upon  the  earth  below, 
Both  in  his  bulk  and  force  and  speed. 
As  being  of  a  different  breed, 
That,  though  our  own  are  but  slow-paced, 
Theirs  there  may  fly,  or  run  as  fast, — 
And  yet  be  elephants  no  less 
Than  those  of  Indian  pedigrees." 

This  said,  another  of  great  worth. 
Famed  for  his  learned  works,  put  forth, 
Looked  wise,  then  said — "All  this  is  true, 
And  learnedly  observed  by  you  ; 
But  there's  another  reason  for't, 
That  falls  Init  very  little  short 
Of  mathematic  demonstration. 
Upon  an  accurate  calculation : 
And  that  is—  As  the  Eartli  and  Moon 
Do  both  move  contrary  upon 
Their  axes,  the  rapidity 
Of  both  their  motions  cannot  be 
But  so  prodigiously  fast 
That  vaster  spaces  may  be  passed 
In  less  time  than  the  beast  has  gone, 


no  BUTLER. 


Though  he  had  no  motion  of  his  own ; 
Which  we  can  take  no  measure  of. 
As  you  have  cleared  by  learned  proof. 
This  granted,  we  may  boldly  thence 
Lay  claim  to  a  nobler  inference  ; 
And  make  this  great  phenomenon, 
Were  there  no  other,  serve  alone 
To  clear  the  grand  hypothesis 
Of  the  motion  of  the  Eartli,  from  this." 

With  this  they  all  were  sati.sfied. 
As  men  are  wont  o'  the  biased  side  ; 
Applauded  the  profound  dispute  ; 
And  grew  more  gay  and  resolute, 
By  having  overcome  all  doubt. 
Than  if  it  never  had  fallen  out ; 
And,  to  complete  their  narrative, 
Agreed  to  insert  this  strange  retrieve. 

I3ut,  while  they  were  diverted  all 
With  wording  the  memorial, 
The  footboys,  for  diversion  too. 
As  having  nothing  else  to  do, 
Seeing  the  telescope  at  leisure, 
Turned  virtuosos  for  their  pleasiu'e  ; 
Began  to  gaze  upon  the  Moon, 
As  those  they  waited  on  had  done. 
With  monkeys'  ingenuity 
That  love  to  practise  what  they  see. 
When  one,  whose  turn  it  was  to  peep, 
Saw  something  in  the  engine  creep ; 
And,  viewing  well,  discovered  more 
Than  all  the  learn' d  had  done  before. 
Quoth  he  ;  "A  little  thing  is  slunk 
Into  the  long  star-gazing  trunk  ; 
And  now  is  gotten  down  so  nigh 
I  have  him  just  against  mine  eye." 

This  being  overheard  by  one 
Who  was  not  so  far  overgrown 
In  any  virtuous  speculation 
To  judge  with  mere  imagination, 
Immediately  he  made  a  guess 
At  solving  all  appearances, — 
A  way  far  more  significant 
Than  all  their  hints  of  the  elephant ; 
And  found,  upon  a  second  view, 
His  own  hypothesis  most  true. 
For  he  had  scarce  applied  his  eye 
To  the  engine,  but  immediately 
He  found  a  mouse  was  gotten  in 
The  hollow  tube,  and,  shut  between 
The  two  glass  windows  in  restraint, 


BUTLER.  Ill 


Was  swelled  into  an  elephant ; 

And  proved  the  virtuous  occasion 

Of  all  this  learned  dissertation : 

And,  as  a  mountain  heretofore 

Was  gi'eat  vi'ith  child,  they  say,  and  bore 

A  silly  mouse,  this  mouse,  as  strange, 

Brought  forth  a  mountain,  in  exchange. 

Meanwhile,  the  rest  in  consultation 
Had  penned  the  wonderful  narration ; 
And  set  their  hands,  and  seals,  and  wit. 
To  attest  the  truth  of  what  they'd  writ ; 
When  this  accurst  phenomenon 
Confounded  all  they'd  said  or  done. 
For  'twas  no  sooner  hinted  at 
But  th'  all  were  in  a  tumult  straight, 
More  furiously  enraged  by  far 
Than  those  that  in  the  Moon  made  war, 
To  find  so  admirable  a  hint. 
When  they  had  all  agreed  to  have  seen't, 
And  were  engaged  to  make  it  out. 
Obstructed  with  a  paltry  doubt. 
When  one  whose  task  was  to  determine 
And  solve  the  appearances  of  vermin, 
Who'd  made  profound  discoveries 
In  frogs  and  toads  and  rats  and  mice^ 
(Though  not  so  curious,  'tis  true. 
As  many  a  wise  rat-catcher  knew), 
After  he  had  with  signs  made  way 
For  something  great  he  had  to  say, 
"At  last  quoth  he  :   "This  disquisition 
Is,  half  of  it,  in  my  discission  ; 
For,  though  the  elephant,  as  beast, 
Belongs  of  right  to  all  the  rest. 
The  mouse,  being  but  a  vermin,  none 
Has  title  to  but  I  alone  ; 
And  therefore  hope  I  may  be  heard, 
In  my  own  province,  with  regard. 
It  is  no  wonder  we're  cried  down. 
And  made  the  talk  of  all  the  town. 
That  rants  and  swears,  for  all  our  great 
Attempts,  we  have  done  nothing  yet. 
If  every  one  have  leave  to  doubt 
When  some  great  secret's  half  made  out ; 
And,  'cause  perhaps  it  is  not  true, 
Obstruct  and  rum  all  we  do. 
As  no  great  act  was  ever  done, 
Nor  ever  can,  with  truth  alone, 


'  It  is  probable  th.it  Digby  was  chiefly  pointed  at  here. 

2  These  four  words  appear  in  a  second  version  of  this  poem,  written  by 
Butler.     In  the  fir.st  version,  as  ordinarily  printed,  there  is  a  gap. 


112  BUTLER. 

If  nothing  else  but  truth  we  allow, 

'Tis  no  great  matter  what  we  do. 

For  truth  is  too  reserved  and  nice 

To  appear  in  mixed  societies  ; 

Delights  in  solitary  abodes, 

And  never  shows  herself  in  crowds  ; 

A  sullen  little  thing,  below 

All  matters  of  pretence  and  show 

That  deal  in  novelty  and  change, — 

Not  of  things  true,  but  rare  and  strange, 

To  treat  the  world  with  what  is  fit 

And  proper  to  its  natural  wit ; 

The  world,  that  never  sets  esteem 

On  what  things  are,  but  what  they  seem. 

And,  if  they  be  not  strange  and  new. 

They're  ne'er  the  better  for  being  true. 

For  what  has  mankind  gained  by  knowing 

His  little  truth,  but  his  undoing, 

Which  wisely  was  by  nature  hidden, 

And  only  for  his  good  forbidden  ? 

And  therefore  with  great  prudence  does 

The  world  still  strive  to  keep  it  close  ; 

For,  if  all  secret  truths  were  known, 

Who  would  not  be  once  more  undone  ? 

For  truth  has  always  danger  in't. 

And  here,  perhaps,  may  cross  some  hint 

We  have  already  agreed  upon. 

And  vainly  frustrate  all  we've  done, 

Only  to  make  new  work  for  Stubbes,'- 

And  all  the  academic  clubs. 

How  much  then  ought  we  have  a  care 

That  no  man  know  above  his  share. 

Nor  dare  to  understand  henceforth 

More  than  his  contribution's  worth  ;^ 

That  those  who've  purchased  of  the  college 

A  share  or  half  a  share  of  knowledge. 

And  brought  in  none,  but  spent  repute, 

Should  not  be  admitted  to  dispute, 

Nor  any  man  pretend  to  know 

More  than  his  dividend  comes  to  ; 

For  partners  have  been  always  known 

To  cheat  their  public  interest  prone  ; 

And,  if  we  do  not  look  to  ours, 

'Tis  sure  to  run  the  self-same  course." 

This  said,  the  whole  assembly  allowed 
The  doctrine  to  be  right  and  good ; 
And,  from  the  truth  of  what  they'd  heard, 

1  Henry  Stubbe,   a  physician,   one  of  the  ablest  opponents  of  the  Royal 
Society. 

2  The  contribution  to  the  Society  was  one  shilling  weekly. 


BUTLER.  113 


Resolved  to  give  truth  no  regard, 
But  what  was  for  their  tarn  to  vouch, 
And  either  find  or  make  it  such: 
That  'twas  more  noble  to  create 
Things  lilce  truth,  out  of  strong  conceit, 
Than,  with  vexatious  pains  and  doubt, 
To  find  or  think  to  have  foimd  her  out. 

This  being  resolved,  they,  one  by  one, 
Reviewed  the  tube,  the  mouse,  and  moon  ; 
But  still,  the  narrower  they  pried, 
The  more  they  were  unsatisfied, — 
In  no  one  thing  they  saw  agreeing, 
As  if  they'd  several  faiths  of  seeing. 
Some  swore,  upon  a  second  view, 
That  all  they'd  seen  before  was  true, 
And  that  they  never  would  recant 
One  syllable  of  the  elephant ; 
Avowed  his  snout  could  be  no  mouse's, 
But  a  true  elephant's  proboscis. 
Others  began  to  doubt  and  -waver. 
Uncertain  which  o'  the  two  to  favour; 
And  knew  not  whether  to  espouse 
The  cause  of  the  elephant  or  mouse. 
Some  held  no  way  so  orthodox 
To  try  it  as  the  ballot-box. 
And,  like  the  nation's  patriots. 
To  find,  or  make,  the  tnith  by  votes. 
Others  conceived  it  much  more  fit 
To  unmount  the  tube,  and  open  it ; 
And,  for  their  private  satisfaction. 
Tore-examine  the  "Transaction," 
And  after  explicate  the  rest, 
As  they  should  find  cause  for  the  best. 

To  this,  as  the  only  expedient, 
The  whole  assembly  gave  consent ; 
But,  ere  the  tube  was  half  let  down. 
It  cleared  the  first  phenomenon; 
For,  at  the  end,  prodigious  swarms 
Of  flies  and  gnats,  lil-ce  men  in  arms. 
Had  all  passed  muster,  by  mischance. 
Both  for  the  Sub-  and  Pri-volvans. 
This,  being  discovered,  put  them  all 
Into  a  fresh  and  fiercer  brawl, 
Asliamed  tliat  men  so  grave  and  wise 
Should  Ijc  caldcscd^  by  gnats  and  flics, 
And  take  the  feeble  insects'  swarms 
For  mighty  troops  of  men  at  arms; 
As  vain  as  those  who,  when  the  Moon 


1  Chaldeizcd,  juggled. 

H 


114  BUTLER. 


Bright  in  a  crystal  river  shone, 
Threw  casting-nets  as  subtly  at  hei", 
To  catch  and  pull  her  out  o'  the  water. 
But,  when  they  had  unscrewed  the  glass 
To  find  out  where  the  impostor  was, 
And  saw  the  mouse,  that  by  mishap 
Had  made  the  telescope  a  trap. 
Amazed,  confounded,  and  afflicted, 
To  be  so  openly  convicted. 
Immediately  they  get  them  gone, — 
With  this  discovery  alone : 
That  those  who  greedily  pursue 
Things  wonderful,  instead  of  true. 
That  in  their  speculations  choose 
To  make  discoveries  strange  nev/s. 
And  natural  history  a  gazette 
Of  tales  stupendous  and  far-fet, — 
Hold  no  truth  worthy  to  be  known 
That  is  not  huge  and  overgrown, 
And  explicate  appearances 
Not  as  they  are  but  as  they  please, — 
In  vain  strive  Nature  to  suborn. 
And  for  their  pains  are  paid  with  scorn. 


UPON  PLAGIARIES. 

Why  should  the  world  be  so  averse 
To  plagiary  privateers, 
That  all  men's  sense  and  fancy  seize. 
And  make  free  prize  of  what  they  please  ? 
As  if,  because  they  huff  and  swell. 
Like  pilferers  full  of  what  they  steal. 
Others  might  equal  power  assume 
To  pay  'em  with  as  hard  a  doom ; 
To  shut  them  up,  like  beasts  in  pounds. 
For  breaking  into  others'  grounds ; 
Mark  'em  with  characters  and  brands, 
Like  other  forgers  of  men's  hands  j 
And  in  effigy  hang  and  draw 
The  poor  delinquents  by  clnb-law; 
When  no  indictment  justly  lies. 
But  where  the  theft  will  bear  a  price. 

For,  though  wit  never  can  be  learned. 
It  may  be  assumed,  and  owned,  and  earned  j 
And,  like  our  noblest  fruits,  improved 
By  being  transplanted  and  removed. 
And,  as  it  bears  no  certain  rate. 
Nor  pays  one  penny  to  the  state. 
With  which  it  turns  no  more  to  account 
Than  virtue,  faith,  and  merit's  wont ; 


BUTLER.  n5 


Is  neither  moveable  nor  rent, 

Nor  chattel,  goods,  nor  tenemeni ; 

Nor  was  it  ever  passed  by  entail, 

Nor  settled  upon  the  heirs-male, 

Or,  if  it  were,  like  ill-got  land, 

Did  never  fall  to  a  second  hand  j — 

So  'tis  no  more  to  be  engrossed 

Than  sunshine,  or  the  air  enclosed, 

Or  to  propriety  confined 

Than  the  uncontrolled  and  scattered  wind.  ; 

For  why  should  that  which  Nature  meant 
To  owe  its  being  to  its  vent. 
That  has  no  value  of  its  own, 
But  as  it  is  divulged  and  Icnown, 
Is  perishable  and  destroyed 
As  long  as  it  lies  unenjoyed. 
Be  scanted  of  that  liberal  use 
Which  all  mankind  is  free  to  choose, 
And  idly  hoarded  where  'twas  bred, 
Instead  of  being  dispersed  and  spread  ? 
And,  the  more  lavish  and  profuse, 
'Tis  of  the  nobler  general  use  ; 
As  riots,  though  supplied  by  stealth. 
Are  wholesome  to  the  commonwealth, 
And  men  spend  freelier  what  they  win 
Than  what  they've  freely  coming  in. 

The  world's  as  full  of  curious  wit 
Which  those  that  father  never  writ 
As  'tis  of  bastards  which  the  sot 
And  cuckold  owns  that  ne'er  begot, 
Yet  pass  as  well  as  if  the  one 
And  the  other  by-blow  were  their  own. 
For  why  should  he  that's  impotent 
To  judge,  and  fancy,  and  invent, 
For  that  impediment  be  stopped 
To  own  and  challenge  and  adopt 
At  least  the  exposed  and  fatherless 
Poor  orphans  of  the  pen  and  press, 
Whose  parents  are  obscure,  or  dead, 
Or  in  far  countries  born  and  bred  ? 

As  none  but  kings  have  power  to  raise 
A  levy  which  the  subject  pays. 
And,  though  they  call  that  tax  a  loan, 
Yet,  when  'tis  gathered,  'tis  their  own  ; 
So  he  that's  able  to  impose 
A  wit-excise  on  verse  or  prose. 
And,  still  the  abler  authors  are, 
Can  make  them  pay  the  greater  share, 
Is  prince  of  poets  of  his  time. 
And  they  his  vassals,  that  supply'm 


Ii6  BUTLER. 

Can  judge  more  justly  of  what  he  takes 
Than  any  of  the  best  he  makes, 
And  more  impartially  conceive 
What's  fit  to  choose  and  what  to  leave. 
For  men  reflect  more  strictly  upon  ■ 
The  sense  of  others  than  their  own  ; 
And  wit  that's  made  of  wit  and  sleight 
Is  richer  than  the  plain  downright : 
As  salt  that's  made  of  salt's  more  fine 
Than  when  it  first  came  from  the  brine, 
And  spirit's  of  a  nobler  nature, 
Drawn  from  the  dull  ingredient  matter. 

Hence  mighty  Virgil's  said,  of  old. 
From  dung  to  have  extracted  gold, — 
As  many  a  lout  and  silly  clown. 
By  his  instructions,  since  has  done, — 
And  grew  more  lofty  by  that  means 
Than  by  his  livery-oats  and  beans, 
When  from  his  carts  and  country-farms 
He  rose  a  mighty  man  at  arms  ; 
To  whom  th'  heroics  ever  since 
Have  sworn  allegiance  as  their  prince, 
And  faithfully  have  in  all  times 
Observed  his  customs  in  their  rhymes. 

'Twas  counted  learning  once  and  wit 
To  void  but  what  some  author  writ. 
And  what  men  understand  by  rote 
By  as  implicit  sense  to  quote. 
Then  many  a  magisterial  clerk 
Was  taught,  like  singing  birds,  i'  the  dark, 
And  understood  as  much  of  things 
As  the  ablest  blackbird  what  it  sings. 
And  yet  was  honoured  and  renowned 
For  grave  and  solid  and  profound. 
Then  why  should  those  who  pick  and  choose 
The  best  of  all  the  best  compose, 
And  join  it,  hy  mosaic  art. 
In  graceful  order,  part  to  part, 
To  make  the  whole  in  beauty  suit, 
Not  merit  as  complete  repute 
As  those  who,  with  less  art  and  pains, 
Can  do  it  with  their  native  brains, 
And  make  the  home-spun  business  fit 
As  freely  with  their  mother-wil? 
Since  what  by  Nature  was  denied 
By  art  and  industry's  supplied, — 
Both  which  are  more  our  own,  and  brave, 
Than  all  the  alms  that  Nature  gave. 
For  what  we  acquire  by  pains  and  art 
Is  only  due  to  our  own  desert ; 


BUTLER. 

While  all  the  endowments  she  confers 
Are  not  so  much  our  own  as  hers, 
That,  like  good  fortune,  unawares 
Fall  not  to  our  virtue,  but  our  shares, 
And  all  we  can  pretend  to  merit 
We  do  not  purchase,  but  inherit. 

Thus  all  the  great'st  inventions,  when 
They  first  were  found  out,  were  so  mean 
That  the  authors  of  them  are  unknown. 
As  little  things  they  scorned  to  own  ; 
Until  by  men  of  nobler  thought 
Th'  were  to  their  full  perfection  brought. 
This  proves  that  wit  does  but  rough-hew. 
Leaves  art  to  polish  and  review, 
And  that  a  wit  at  second  hand 
Has  greatest  interest  and  command ; 
For  to  improve,  dispose,  and  judge. 
Is  nobler  than  to  invent  and  drudge. 

Invention's  humorous  and  nice, 
And  never  at  command  applies  ; 
Disdains  to  obey  the  proudest  wit. 
Unless  it  chance  to  be  in  the  fit, — 
Like  prophecy,  that  can  presage 
Successes  of  the  latest  age. 
Yet  is  not  able  to  tell  when 
It  next  shall  prophesy  again  ; 
Makes  all  her  suitors  course  and  wait 
Like  a  proud  minister  of  state. 
And,  when  she's  serious  in  some  freak, 
Extravagant  and  vain  and  weak. 
Attend  her  silly  lazy  pleasure, 
Until  she  chance  to  be  at  leisure  ; 
When  'tis  more  easy  to  steal  wit. 
To  clip,  and  forge,  and  counterfeit, 
Is  both  the  business  and  delight, 
Like  hunting-sports,  of  those  that  write  ; 
For  thievery  is  but  one  sort, 
The  learned  say,  of  hunting-sport. 

Hence  'tis  that  some  who  set  up  first 
As  raw  and  wretched  and  unversed. 
And  opened  with  a  stock  as  poor 
As  a  healthy  beggar  with  one  sore; 
That  never  writ  in  prose  or  verse. 
But  picked  or  cut  it,  like  a  purse, 
And  at  the  best  could  Init  commit 
The  petty-Iarccny  of  wit ; 
To  whom  to  write  was  to  purloin, 
And  printing  but  to  stamp  false  coin; 
Yet,  after  long  and  sturdy  endeavours 
Of  being  painful  wit-receivers. 


"7 


Ii8  BUTLER, 


With  gathering  rags  and  scraps  of  wit 
(As  paper's  made,  on  which  'tis  writ), 
Have  gone  forth  authors,  and  acquired 
The  right — or  wrong — to  be  admired  ; 
And,  armed  with  confidence,  incurred 
The  fool's  good  luck,  to  be  preferred. 

For,  as  a  banker  can  dispose 
Of  greater  sums  he  only  owes 
Than  he  who  honestly  is  known 
To  deal  in  nothing  but  his  own, 
So  whosoe'er  can  take  up  most 
May  greatest  fame  and  credit  boast. 


UPON  MODERN  CRITICS. 

A  PINDARIC  ODE. 

'Tis  well  that  equal  Heaven  has  placed 
Those  joys  above  that  to  reward 
The  just  and  virtuous  are  prepared, 

Beyond  their  reach  until  their  pains  are  past ; 

Else  men  would  rather  venture  to  possess 
By  force,  than  earn,  their  happiness; 
-     And  only  take  the  devil's  advice. 

As  Adam  did,  how  soonest  to  be  wise. 
Though  at  the  expense  of  Paradise. 

For,  as  some  say  to  fight  is  but  a  base 
Mechanic  handiwork,  and  far  below 
A  generous  spirit  to  undergo. 
So  'tis  to  take  the  pains  to  know, — 

Which  some,  with  only  confidence  and  face. 
More  easily  and  ably  do  ; 

For  daring  nonsense  seldom  fails  to  hit. 

Like  scattered  shot,  and  pass  with  some  for  wit. 

Who  would  not  rather  make  himself  a  judge, 
And  boldly  usurp  the  chair. 
Than  with  dull  industry  and  care 
Endure  to  study,  think,  and  drudge. 

For  that  which  he  much  sooner  may  advance 
With  obstinate  and  pertinacious  ignorance? 

For  all  men  challenge,  though  in  spite 
Of  Nature  and  their  stars,  a  right 

To  censure,  judge,  and  know; 
Though  she  can  only  order  who 

Shall  be,  and  who  shall  ne'er  be,  wise. 
Then  why  should  those  whom  she  denies 
Her  favour  and  good  graces  to 
Not  strive  to  take  opinion  by  surprise, 
And  ravish  what  it  were  in  vain  to  woo  ? 
For  he  that  desperately  assumes 


BUTLER.  119 


The  censure  of  all  wits  and  arts, 

Though  without  judgment,  skill,  and  parts, 

Only  to  startle  and  amuse. 
And  mask  his  ignorance,  as  Indians  use 
With  gaudy- coloured  plumes 

Their  homely  nether  parts  to  adorn, 
Can  never  fail  to  captive  some, 
That  will  submit  to  his  oraculous  doom. 

And  reverence  what  they  ought  to  scorn ; 

Admire  his  sturdy  confidence 

For  solid  judgment  and  deep  sense  ; — 
And  credit  purchased  without  pains  or  wit, 
Like  stolen  pleasures,  ought  to  be  most  sweet. 

Two  self-admirers,  that  combine 
Against  the  world,  may  pass  a  fine'- 
Upon  all  judgment,  sense,  and  wit, 
And  settle  it,  as  they  tiiink  fit, 
On  one  another,  like  the  choice 
Of  Persian  princes  by  one  horse's  voice.- 

For  those  fine  pageants,  which  some  raise, 
Of  false  and  disproportioned  praise, 
To  enable  whom  they  please  to  appear 
And  pass  for  what  they  never  were. 

In  private  only  being  but  named, 

Their  modesty  must  be  ashamed,^ 
And  not  endure  to  hear  ; 
And  yet  may  be  drv-ulged  and  famed. 

And  owned  in  public  everywhere. 
So  vain  some  authors  are  to  boast 
Their  want  of  ingenuity,  and  club 

Their  affidavit  wits,  to  dub 
Each  other  but  a  Knight  o'  the  Post, 
As  false  as  suborned  perjurers. 
That  vouch  away  all  right  they  have  to  their  own  ears. 

But,  when  all  other  courses  fail, 
There  is  one  easy  artifice 
That  seldom  has  been  known  to  miss, — •■ 
To  cry  all  mankind  douai,  and  rail : 
For  he  whom  all  men  do  contemn 
May  be  allowed  to  rail  again  at  them, 
And  ill  his  own  defence 
To  outface  reason,  wit,  and  sense, 

i  A  mode  of  changing;  or  alienating  real  property.  The  phrase  is  most  usually 
adopted  when  a  person  has  a  limited  interest  in  an  estate,  and,  wishing  to  divest 
himself  of  a  reversionary  interest  in  it,  settles  the  whole  on  himself  absolutely. 
And  this  is  the  sense  in  which  Hutler  here  uses  it. 

"  The  well-known  story  of  the  election  of  Dariu.s. 

3  Alluding  to  the  custom  of  ushering  books  of  poetry  to  the  public  with  com- 
mendatory verses. 


r20  BUTLER. 


And  all  that  makes  against  himself  condemn ; 

To  snarl  at  p.U  things  right  or  wrong, 
Like  a  mad  dog  that  has  a  worm  in  his  tongue ; 
Reduce  all  knowledge  back  of  good  and  evil 

To  its  first  original,  tlie  devil ; 
And,  like  a  fiei^ce  inquisitor  of  vyit, 
To  spare  no  flesh  that  ever  spoke  or  writ ; 

Though,  to  perform  his  task,  as  dull 
As  if  he  had  a  toadstone  in  his  skuU, 

And  could  produce  a  greater  stock 
Of  maggots  than  a  pastoral  poet's  flock. 

The  feeblest  vermin  can  destroy, 

As  sure  as  stoutest  beasts  of  prey  ; 

And  only  with  their  eyes  and  breath 

Infect  and  poison  men  to  death. 

But  that  more  impotent  buffoon 
That  makes  it  both  his  business  and  his  sport 

To  rail  at  all  is  but  a  drone, 
That  spends  his  sting  on  what  he  cannot  hurt  ; 
Enjoys  a  kind  of  lechery  in  spite, 
Like  o'ergro^vn  sinners  that  in  whipping  take  delight ; 
Invades  the  reputation  of  all  those 

That  have,  or  have  it  not,  to  lose  : 
And,  if  he  chance  to  make  a  difference, 

'Tis  always  in  the  wrongest  sense  : 

As  rooking  gamesters  never  lay 

Upon  those  hands  that  use  fair  play. 
But  venture  all  their  bets 
Upon  the  slurs  and  cunning  tricks  of  ablest  cheats. 

Nor  does  he  vex  himself  much  less 
Than  all  the  world  beside. 

Falls  sick  of  other  men's  excess, 
Is  humbled  only  at  their  pride, 

And  wretched  at  their  happiness  ;, 

Revenges  on  himself  the  wrong 

Which  his  vain  mah'ce  and  loose  tongue 

To  those  that  feel  it  not  have  done  ; 
Arid  whips  and  spurs  himself,  because  he  is  outgone ; 

Makes  idle  characters  and  tales, 

As  counterfeit,  unlike,  and  false. 
As  witches'  pictures  are,  of  wax  and  clay, 
To  those  whom  they  would  in  effigy  slay. 
And  as  the  devil,  that  has  no  shape  of  his  own, 

Affects  to  put  the  ugliest  on. 
And  leaves  a  stink  behind  him  when  he's  gone : 
So  he.  that's  worse  than  nothing»'strives  to  appear 

I'  the  likeness 'of  a  wolf  or  bear, 

To  fright  the  weak ;  but,  when  men  dare 
Encounter  with  him,  stinks,  and  vajiishes'to  air. 


BUTLER.  121 


A  PALINODE  TO  THE  HONOURABLE  EDWARD  HOWARD,  ESQ. 

UPON  HIS  INCOMFARABLE  POEM  OF  "  THE  BRITISH  PRINCES." 

It  is  your  pardon,  sir,  for  which  my  Muse 

Thrice  humbly  thus,  in-  form  of  paper,  sues  ; 

For,  having  felt  the  dead  weight  of  your  wit, 

She  comes  to  ask  forgiveness,  and  submit  ; 

Is  sorry  for  her  faults,  and,  while  I  write. 

Mourns  in  the  black,  does  penance  in  the  white  : 

But  such  is  her  belief  in  your  just  candour. 

She  hopes  you  will  not  so  misunderstand  her 

To  wrest  her  harmless  meaning  to  the  sense 

Of  silly  emulation  or  offence. 

No  :  your  sufficient  wit  does  still  declare 

Itself  too  amply;  they  are  mad  that  dare 

So  vain  and  senseless  a  presumption  own 

To  yoke  your  vast  parts  in  comparison. 

And  yet  you  might  have  thought  upon  a  way 

To  instruct  us  how  you'd  have  us  to  obey; 

And  not  command  our  praises,  and  then  blame 

All  that's  too  great  or  little  for  your  fame  ;^ 

For  v/ho  could  choose  but  err,  without  some  trick 

To  take  your  elevation  to  a  nick  ? 

As  he  that  was  desired,  upon  occasion,  _ 

To  make  the  Mayor  of  London  an  oration, 

Desired  his  lordship's  favour  that  he  might 

Take  measure  of  his  mouth,  to  fit  it  right ; 

So,  had  you  sent  a  scantling  of  your  wit. 

You  might  have  blamed  us  if  it  did  not  fit ; 

But  'tis  not  just  to  impose,  and  then  cry  down 

All  that's  unequal  to  your  huge  renown  ; 

For  he  that  writes  below  your  vast  desert 

Betrays  his  own,  and  not  your,  want  of  art. 

Praise,  like  a  robe  of  state,  should  not  sit  close 

To  the  person  'tis  made  for,  but,  wide  and  loose,. 

Derives  its  comeliness  from  being  unfit ; 

And  such  have  been  our  praises  of  your  wit. 

Which  is  so  extraordinary  no  height 

Of  fancy,  but  your  own,  can  do  it  right ; 

Witness  those  glorious  poems  you  have  writ 

"VVilh  equal  jud'gment,  learning,  art,  and  wit, 

And  those  stupendious  discoveries 

You've  lately  made  of  wonders  in  the  skies. 

For  who,  but  from  yourself,  did  ever  hear 

The  "sphere  of  atoms"  was  the  "  atmosphere  P"^ 


1  Mr.  How.ird  was  very  angry  with  his  critics,  and  particularly  with  those- 
■wha  ridiculed  him  under  the  disguise  of  burlesque  panegyric. 
2  A  space  transparent  entertains  the  eye  ; 
The  sphere  of  atoms  called. 

British  Princes^ 


122  BUTLER. 

Who  ever  shut  those  stragglers  in  a  room, 

Or  put  a  circle  about  vacuum. 

That  should  confine  those  undetermined  crowds, 

And  yet  extend  no  further  than  the  clouds  ? 

Who  ever  could  have  thought,  but  you  alone, 

A  "sign"  and  an  "ascendant"  were  all  one? 

Or  how  'tis  possible  the  Moon  should  shroud 

Her  face,  to  peep  at  Mars,  behind  a  cloud  ; 

Since  clouds  below  are  so  far  distant  placed 

They  cannot  hinder  her  from  being  barefaced  ? 

Who  ever  did  a  language  so  enrich 

To  scorn  all  little  particles  of  speech? 

Tor,  though  they  make  the  sense  clear,  yet  they're  found 

To  be  a  scurvy  hindrance  to  the  sound ; 

Therefore  you  wisely  scorn  your  style  to  humble, 

Or  for  the  sense's  sake  to  waive  the  nimble. 

Had  Homer  known  this  art,  he  had  ne'er  been  fain 

To  use  so  many  particles  in  vain. 

That  to  no  purpose  serve  but  as  he  haps 

To  want  a  syllable  to  fill  up  gap?. 

You  justly  coin  new  verbs,  to  pay  for  those 

Which  in  construction  you  o'ersee  and  lose  ; 

And  by  this  art  do  Priscian  no  wrong 

When  you  break's  head,  for  'tis  as  broad  as  long. 

These  are  your  own  discoveries,  which  none 

But  such  a  Muse  as  yours  could  hit  upon, 

That  can,  in  spite  of  laws  of  art  or  rules. 

Make  things  more  intricate  than  all  the  schools  : 

For  what  have  laws  of  art  to  do  with  you, 

More  than  the  laws  with  honest  men  and  true  ? 

He  that's  a  prince  in  poetry  should  strive 

To  cry  'em  down,  by  his  prerogative, 

And  not  submit  to  that  which  has  no  force 

Eut  o'er  delinquents  and  inferiors. 

Your  poems  will  endure  to  be  tried 

I'  the  fire  like  gold,  and  come  forth  purified  ; 

Can  only  to  eternity  pretend, 

For  they  were  never  writ  to  any  end. 

All  other  books  bear  an  uncertain  rate  ; 

But  those  jw<  write  are  always  sold  by  weight, — 

Each  word.and  syllable  brought  to  the  scale, 

And  valued  to  a  scrapie  in  the  sale. 

For,  when  the  paper's  charged  with  your  rich  wit, 

'Tis  for  all  purposes  and  uses  fit ; 

Has  an  abstersive  virtue  to  make  clean 

Whatever  nature  made  in  man  obscene  ; 

Boys  find,  by  experiment,  no  paper  kite, 

Without  your  verse,  can  make  a  noble  flight ; 

It  keeps  our  spice  and  aromatics  sweet  ; 

In  Paris  they  perfume  their  rooms  with  it  : 


BUTLER.  123 


For  burning  but  one  leaf  of  yours,  they  say, 
Dri/es  all  their  stinks  and  nastiness  away. 
Cooks  keep  their  pies  from  burning  with  your  wit, 
Their  pigs  and  geese  from  scorching  on  the  spit ; 
And  vintners  find  their  wines  are  ne'er  the  worse, 
When  arsenic's  only  wrapped  up  in  the  verse. 
These  are  the  great  performances  that  raise 
Your  mighty  parts  above  all  reach  of  praise, 
And  give  us  only  leave  to  admire  your  worth ; 
For  no  man  but  yourself  can  set  it  forth, — 
Whose  wondrous  power's  so  generally  known, 
Fame  is  the  echo,  and  her  voice  your  own. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  HOLLAND.i 

A  COUNTRY  that  draws  fifty  foot  of  water, 

In  which  men  live  as  in  the  hold  of  Nature  ; 

And,  when  the  sea  does  in  upon  them  break, 

And  drown  a  province,  does  but  spring  a  leak  ; 

That  always  ply  the  pump,  and  never  think 

They  can  be  safe,  but  at  the  rate  they  stink  ;^ 

That  live  as  if  they  had  been  run  aground. 

And,  when  they  die,  are  cast  away  and  drowned  ; 

That  dwell  in  ships,  like  swarms  of  rats,  and  prey 

Upon  the  goods  all  other  nations'  fleets  convey; 

And,  when  their  merchants  are  blown  up  and  cracked, 

Whole  towns  are  cast  away  in  storms  and  wrecked ; 

That  feed,  like  cannibals,  on  other  fishes, 

And  serve  their  cousin-germans  up  in  dishes. 

A  land  that  rides  at  anchor,  and  is  moored ; 

In  which  they  do  not  live,  but  go  aboard. 


REGAL  ADULATION. 

In  foreign  universities, 

When  a  king's  born,  or  weds,  or  dies, 

Straight  other  studies  are  laid  by, 

And  all  apply  to  poetry. 

Some  write  in  Hebrew,  some  in  Greek  ; 

And  some,  more  wise,  in  Arabic, 

To  avoid  the  critic,  and  the  expense 

Of  difficulter  wit  and  sense, 

And  seem  more  learnedish  than  those 


1  Compare  these  verses  with  the  Character  0/  Holland,  by  Marvell,  p.  141. 
Butler's  lines  had  not  been  published  during  Marvell's  lifetime. 

2  Should  this  word  be  "sink"?  If  so,  the  sense  appears  to  be  that  the  Hol- 
landers do  not  so  much  as  think  of  being  absolutely  safe,  but  only  think  (reckon) 
at  what  rate  they  arc  sinking:  if  that  rate  is  slow,  they  have  to  be  contented. 
If  "  stink"  is  correct,  I  do  not  seize  the  sense. 


124  BUTLER. 

That  at  a  greater  charge  compose. 

The  doctors  lead,  the  students  follow  ; 

Some  call  him  Mars,  and  some  Apollo, 

Some  Jupiter,  and  give  him  the  odds, 

On  even  terms,  of  all  the  gods. 

Then  Caesar  he's  nicknamed, — as  duly  as 

He  that  in  Rome  was  christened  Julius, 

And  was  addressed  to  by  a  crow 

As  pertinently  long  ago, — 

And  with  more  heroes'  names  is  styled 

Than  saints'  are  clubbed  to  an  Austrian  child. 

And,  as  wit  goes  by  colleges, 

As  well  as  standing  and  degrees. 

He  still  writes  better  than  the  rest 

That's  of  the  house  that's  counted  best. 


FEAR. 


There  needs  no  other  charm  nor  conjurer, 
To  raise  infernal  spirits  up,  but  fear; 
That  makes  men  pull  their  horns  in,  like  a  snail, 
That's  both  a  prisoner  to  itself,  and  jail ; 
Draws  more  fantastic  shapes  than  in  the  grains 
Of  knotted  wood,  in  some  men's  crazy  brains  ; 
When  all  the  cocks  they  think  they  see,  and  bulls, 
Are  only  in  the  inside  of  their  skulls. 


A  JUBILEE. 

A  JUBILEE  is  but  a  spiritual  fair 

To  expose  to  sale  all  sorts  of  impious  ware ; 

In  which  his  Holiness  buys  nothing  in 

To  stock  his  magazines,  but  deadly  sin, 

And  deals  in  extraordinary  crimes, 

That  are  not  vendible  at  other  times; 

For,  dealing  both  for  Judas  and  th'  High-Priest, 

He  makes  a  plentifuller  trade  of  Christ. 


SCRIBBLERS. 

As  he  that  makes  his  mark  is  understood 
To  write  his  name,  and  'tis  in  law  as  good  ; 
So  he  that  cannot  write  one  word  of  sense 
Believes  he  has  as  legal  a  pretence 
To  scribble  what  he  does  not  understand 
As  idiots  have  a  title  to  their  land. 


SUCKLING.  1^5 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 

[Born  in  1613,  son  of  the  Controller  of  the  Household  to  Charles  I.  ;  died  in 
1641.  An  elegant  courtier,  and  man  of  gallantry  and  wit.  He  saw  some  ser- 
vice under  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and  raised  a  troop  of  horse  in  the  cause  of 
Charles  I.,  but  with  no  successful  result]. 

SIR  J.  S. 
Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 

Three  whole  days  together  ; 
•■  And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 

If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings, 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  Lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me  : 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 


LOVE  AND  DEBT  ALIKE  TROUBLESOME. 

This  one  request  I  make  to  him  that  sits  the  clouds  above, — 

That  I  were  freely  out  of  debt,  as  I  am  out  of  love. 

Then  for  to  dance,  to  drink  and  sing,  I  should  be  very  willing ; 

I  should  not  owe  one  lass  a  kiss,  nor  ne'er  a  knave  a  shilling. 

'Tis  only  being  in  love  and  debt  that  breaks  us  of  our  rest ; 

And  he  that  is  quite  out  of  botli  of  all  the  world  is  blest  : 

He  sees  the  Golden  Age  wherein  all  things  were  free  and  common ; 

He  eats,  he  drinks,  he  takes  his  rest,  he  fears  no  man  nor  woman. 

Though  Crcesus  compassed  great  wealth,  yet  he  still  craved  more  j 

lie  was  as  needy  a  beggar  still  as  goes  from  door  to  door. 

Though  Ovid  was  a  merry  man,  love  ever  kept  him  sad  ; 

He  was  as  far  from  happiness  as  one  that  is  stark  mad. 

Our  merchant  he  in  goods  is  rich,  and  full  of  gold  and  treasure  ; 

But,  when  he  thinks  upon  his  debts,   that  thought  destroys  his 

pleasure. 
Our  courtier  thinks  that  he's  preferred,  whom  every  man  envies  ; 
When  love  .so  rumbles  in  his  pate,  no  sleep  comes  in  his  eyes. 
Our  Gallant's  case  is  worst  of  all,  he  lies  so  just  betwixt  them  ; 
For  he's  in  love,  and  he's  in  debt,  and  knows  not  which  most  vex 

him. 
But  he  that  can  eat  beef,  and  feed  on  bread  which  is  so  brown, 
May  satisfy  his  appetite,  and  owe  no  man  a  crown  : 


126  CLEVELAND. 


And  he  that  is  content  with  lasses  clothed  in  plain  woollen 
May  cool  his  heat  in  every  place  ;  he  need  not  to  be  sullen, 
Nor  sigh  for  love  of  lady  fair  ;  for  this  each  wise  man  knows,- 
As  trood  stuff  under  flannel  lies  as  under  silken  clothes. 


UPON  THE  BLACK  SPOTS  WORN  BY  MY  LADY  D. 

I  KNOW  your  heart  cannot  so  guilty  be 

That  you  should  wear  those  spots  for  vanity  ; 

Or,  as  your  beauty's  trophies,  put  on  one 

For  every  murder  which  your  eyes  have  done. 

No,  they're  your  mourning-weeds  for  hearts  forlorn, 

Which,  though  you  must  not  love,  you  could  not  scorn ; 

To  whom  since  cruel  honour  does  deny 

Those  joys  could  only  cure  their  misery, 

Yet  you  this  noble  way  to  grace  'em  found. 

Whilst  thus  your  grief  their  martyrdom  has  crowned  : — 

Of  which  take  heed  you  prove  not  prodigal ; 

For,  if  to  every  common  funeral, 

By  your  eyes  martyred,  such  grace  were  allowed, 

Your  face  would  wear  not  patches,  but  a  cloud. 


THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 

The  little  boy  to  show  his  might  and  power, 
Turned  lo  to  a  cow.  Narcissus  to  a  flower ; 
Transformed  Apollo  to  a  homely  swain, 
And  Jove  himself  into  a  golden  rain. 
These  shapes  were  tolerable  ;  but,  by  the  mass, 
He  has  metamorphosed  me  into  an  ass  ! 


JOHN  CLEVELAND. 

[Bom  at  Loughborough  in  1613,  son  of  a  clergyman  ;  died  in  London  in  1658. 
Cleveland  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  champion  in  verse  of  the  cause  of 
Charles  L,  when  the  parliamentary  struggle  began.  He  was  imprisoned  for 
awhile,  but  had  been  set  at  large  some  time  before  his  death.  A  satire  named 
The  Rebel  Scots  is  his  principal  performance]. 

THE  LONG  PARLIAMENT. 

Most  gracious  and  omnipotent 
And  everlasting  Parliament, 

Whose  power  and  majesty 
Are  greater  than  all  kings'  by  odds, — 
And  to  account  you  less  than  gods 

Must  needs  be  blasphemy, — 

Moses  and  Aaron  ne'er  did  do 
More  wonder  than  is  wrought  by  you 
For  Ensrland's  Israel  ; 


CLEVELAND.  127 

But,  though  the  Red  Sea  we  have  passed, 
If  you  to  Canaan  bring's  at  last, 
Is't  not  a  miracle  ? 

In  six  years'  space  you  have  done  more 
Than  all  the  parliaments  before  ; 

You  have  quite  done  the  work. ' 
The  King,  the  Cavalier,  and  Pope, 
You  have  o'erthrown,  and  next  we  hope 

You  will  confound  the  Turk. 

By  you  we  have  deliverance 

From  the  design  of  Spain  and  France, 

Ormond,  Montrose,  the  Danes  ; 
You,  aided  by  our  brethren  Scots, 
Defeated  have  malignant  plots. 

And  brought  your  sword  to  Cain's. 

What  wholesome  laws  you  have  ordained 
Whereby  our  property's  maintained 

'Gainst  those  would  us  undo  ! 
So  that  our  fortunes  and  our  lives — 
Nay,  what  is  dearer,  our  own  wives — 

Ai-e  wholly  kept  by  you. 

Oh  what  a  flourishing  Church  and  State 
Have  we  enjoyed  e'er  since  you  sate  ! 

What  a  glorious  King  (God  save  him  !) 
Have  you  not  made  his  Majesty, — 
Had  he  the  grace  but  to  comply. 

And  do  as  you  would  have  him  ! 

Your  Directory  how  to  pray 

By  the  Spirit  shows  the  perfect  way ; 

In  zeal  you  have  abolished 
The  Dagon  of  the  Coiiwwn  Prayer, 
And  next  we  see  you  will  take  care 

That  churches  be  demolished. 

A  multitude,  in  every  trade, 

Of  painful  preachers  you  have  made, 

Learned  by  revelation  ; 
Cambridge  and  Oxford  made  poor  preachers, 
Each  shop  affordeth  better  teachers, — 

Oh  blessed  reformation  ! 

Your  godly  wisdom  hath  found  out 
The  true  religion,  without  doubt  ; 

For  sure  among  so  many 
(We  have  five  hundred  at  the  least) 
Is  not  the  gospel  much  increased  ? 

All  must  be  pure,  if  any. 


128  CLE  VELAND. 


Could  you  have  done  more  piously 
Than  sell  church-lands  the  King  to  buy, 

And  stop  the  city's  plaints  ? 
Paying  the  Scots'  church-militant, 
That  the  new  gospel  helped  to  plant ; 

God  knows  they  are  poor  saints ! 

Because  the  Apostles'  Creed  is  lame, 
The  Assembly  doth  a  better  frame. 

Which  saves  us  all  ■with  'ease  ; 
Provided  still  we  have  the  grace 
To  believe  the  House  in  the  first  place. 

Our  works  be  what  they  please. 

'Tis  strange  your  power  and  holiness 
Can't  the  Irish  devils  dispossess, 

His  end  is  very  stout  : 
But,  though  you  do  so  often  pray. 
And  every  month  keep  fasting-day, 

You  cannot  cast  them  out. 


THE  PURITAN. 

With  face  and  fashion  to  be  known 

For  one  of  sure  election  ; 

With  eyes  all  white,  and  many  a  groan  ; 

With  neck  aside  to  draw  in  tone  ; 

With  harp  in's  nose,  or  he  is  none  : 
See  a  new  teacher  of  the  town, 
Oh  the  town,  oh  the  town's  new  teacher  ! 

With  pate  cut  shorter  than  the  brow  ; 
With  little  ruff  starched,  you  know  how  ; 
With  cloak  like  Paul,  no  cape  I  trow  ; 
With  surplice  none,  but  lately  now  ; 
With  hands  to  thump,  no  knees  to  bow  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  cozening  cough,  and  hollow  cheek, 
To  get  new  gatherings  every  week  ; 
With  paltry  change «of /7;;c/ to  eke; 
With  some  small  Hebrew,  and  no  Greek, 
To  find  out  words,  when  stuff's  to  seek  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  shop-board  breeding  and  intrusion  ; 
With  some  outlandish  institution  ; 
With  Ursine's  catechism  to  muse  on  ; 
With  system's  method  for  confusion  ; 
With  grounds  strong  laid  of  mere  illusion  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 


CLEVELAND.  129 


With  rites  indifferent  all  damned, 
And  made  unlawful  if  commanded, 
Good  works  of  Popery  down  banded, 
And  moral  laws  from  him  estranged. 
Except  the  Sabbath  still  unchanged  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  speech  unthought,  quick  revelation  ; 
With  boldness  in  predestination  ; 
With  threats  of  absolute  damnation, — 
Yet  Yea-2L-aA-Nay  hath  some  salvation 
For  his  own  tribe,  not  every  nation  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  after-license  cost  a  crown. 
When  Bishop  new  had  put  him  down  ; 
With  tricks  called  repetition, 
And  doctrine,  newly  brought  to  town, 
Of  teaching  men  to  hang  and  drown  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  flesh-provision  to  keep  Lent ; 
With  shelves  of  sweetmeats  often  spent, 
Which  new  maid  bought,  old  lady  sent, — 
Though,  to  be  saved,  a  poor  present, 
Yet  legacies  assure  to  event  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  troops  expecting  him  at  the  door, 
That  would  hear  sermons,  and  no  more, — 
With  noting-tools,  and  sighs  great  store, 
With  Bibles  great,  to  turn  them  o'er. 
While  he  wrests  places  by  the  score  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  running  text,  the  named  forsaken  ; 
With/c7r  and  but,  both  by  sense  shaken. 
Cheap  doctrines  forced,  wild  uses  taken. 
Both  sometimes  one  by  mark  mistaken  ; 
With  anything  to  any  shapen  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

W^ith  new-wrought  caps,  against  the  canon. 
For  taking  cold,  though  sure  he  ha'  none  ; 
A  sermon's  end  where  he  began  one 
A  new  hour  long,  when's  glass  had  ran  one  ; 
New  use,  new  points,  new  notes  to  stand  on  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 


I  :;o  DENHAM. 


R.  WATKYNS. 

[Author  oi  Flamma  sine  Favw,  published  in  1662]. 

BLACK  PATCHES— VANITAS  VANITATUM. 

Ladies  turn  conjurers,  and  can  impart 

The  hidden  mystery  of  the  black  art ; 

Black  artificial  patches  do  betray 

They  more  affect  the  works  of  night  than  day. 

The  creature  strives  the  Creator  to  disgrace, 

By  patching  that  which  is  a  perfect  face. 

A  little  stain  upon  the  purest  dye 

Is  both  offensive  to  the  heart  and  eye  ; 

Defile  not  then  with  spots  that  face  of  snow, 

Where  the  wise  God  His  workmanship  doth  show. 

The  light  of  nature  and  the  light  of  grace 

Is  the  complexion  for  a  lady's  face. 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 

[Born  in  Dublin,  of  an  EngHsh  family,  in  1615  :  died  in  1668.  The  author  of 
the  descriptive  poem  of  Cooper  s  Hill  was  in  his  own  day  admired  also  as  a 
plaj'wright,  in  virtue  of  his  tragedy.  The  Sophy.  He  was  noted  moreover  as  a 
gambler,  and  he  rendered  some  important  services  in  conducting  correspondence- 
for  Charles  I.  The  monarch  for  whom  his  journey  to  Poland  was  made  (see 
the  ensuing  poem)  was  Charles  II.,  towards  1650.  "  According  to  some  ac- 
counts, Denhara  first  discovered  the  merits  of  WSSx.oxi^  Paradise  Lost ;  and 
went  about  with  the  book  new  from  the  press  in  his  hands,  showing  it  to  every- 
body, and  exclaiming,  '  This  beats  us  all,  and  the  ancients  too  ! '  "j 

ON  MY  LORD  CROFT'S  AND  MY  JOURNEY  INTO  POLAND, 

FROM  WHENCE  WE  BROUGHT  ;^IO,000  FOR  HIS  MAJESTY,  BY  THB  DECIMATION 
OF  HIS  SCOTTISH  SUBJECTS  THERE. 

Toll,  toll, 

Gentle  bell,  for  the  soul 

Of  the  pure  ones  in  Pole 

Which  are  damned  in  our  scroll ! 

Who  having  felt  a  touch 
Of  Cockram's  greedy  clutch — 
(Which  though  it  was  not  much, 
Yet  their  stubbornness  was  such 

That,  when  we  did  arrive, 

'Gainst  the  stream  we  did  strive) — ■ 

They  woivld  neither  lead  nor  drive  ; 

Nor  lend 

An  ear  to  a  friend, 

Nor  an  answer  would  send 

To  our  letter  so  well  penned ; 

Nor  assist  our  affairs 

With  their  moneys  nor  their  wares, 


DEN  HAM.  131 


As  their  answei*  now  declares, — 
But  only  with  their  prayers. 

Thus  they  did  persist, 
Did  and  said  what  they  list, 
Till  the  Diet  was  dismissed  ; 
But  then  our  breech  they  kissed. 

For,  when 

It  was  moved  there  and  then 
They  should  pay  one  in  ten, 
The  Diet  said  Amen. 

And,  because  they  are  loth 
To  discover  the  troth, 
They  must  give  word  and  oath, 
Though  they  will  forfeit  both. 

Thus  the  constitution 
Condemns  them  every  one, 
From  the  father  to  the  son. 

But  John 

(Our  friend)  Mollesson 
Thought  us  to  have  outgone 
With  a  quaint  invention. 

Like  the  prophets  of  yore. 
He  complained  long  before 
Of  the  mischiefs  in  store, 
Aye,  and  thrice  as  much  more  ; 

And,  with  that  wicked  lie, 
A  letter  they  came  by 
From  our  King's  majesty. 

But  fate 

Brought  the  letter  too  late  ; 

'Twas  of  too  old  a  date 

To  relieve  their  damned  state. 

The  letter's  to  be  seen, 
With  seal  of  wax  so  green. 
At  Dantzig,  where'l  has  been 
Turned  into  good  Latin. 

But  he  that  gave  the  hint 
This  letter  for  to  print 
Must  also  pay  his  stint. 

That  trick. 

Had  it  come  ia  tlio  nick, 
Had  touched. us  to  the  quick  ; 
But  the  messenger  fell  sick. 


132  COWLEY. 

Had  it  later  been  wrote, 
And  sooner  been  brought, 
Tliey  had  got  what  they  sought ; 
But  now  it  serves  for  nought. 

On  Sandys  they  ran  agroUnd  ;   , 
And  our  return  was  crowned 
With  full  ten-thousand  pound. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

fBorn  in  London,  1618,  the  son  of  a  grocer;  died  at  Chertsey,  28  July 
1667.  He  was  extraordinarily  precocious,  publishing  at  the  age  of  fifteen  a 
volume  of  Poetical  Blossoms.  During  the  Parliamentary  War  he  was  mostly 
abroad,  and  was  laboriously  employed  in  conducting  a  correspondence  in 
cipher  between  the  King  and  Queen.  Afterwards  he  became  a  doctor  of  medi- 
cine, paying  some  considerable  attention  to  botany.  At  the  age  of  forty-two 
he  retired  to  a  life  of  rural  and  lettered  seclusion  at  Chertsey  :  this  also,  it 
would  seem,  palled  upon  him,  and  death  put  a  period  to  it  after  a  brief  interval 
of  years.  Cowley  is  one  of  the  poets  of  remote  and  brilliant  turns  of  thought, 
and  elaborated  literary  distinction.  One  does  not  love  his  poetry  ,  but  one  can 
admire  it  often— if  only  one  would  read  it]. 

THE  CHRONICLE,  A  BALLAD. 

Margarita  first  possessed, 
If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 
■  Margarita  first  of  all ; 
But,  when  a  while  the  wanton  maid 
With  my  restless  heart  had  played, 
Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign 
To  the  beauteous  Catharine  : 
Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 
(Though  loth  and  angry  she  to  jDart 
With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 
To  Eliza's  conquering  face. 

Eliza  till  this  hour  might  reign, 
Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en  : 
Fundamental  laws  she  broke, 
And  still  new  favourites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose, 
And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Anne, 

Both  to  reign  at  once  began  ; 

Alternately  they  swayed  ; 

And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  fair, 

And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear, 

And  sometimes  both  I  obeyed. 

Another  Mary  then  arose, 
And  did  rigorous  laws  imj^ose  ; 


COWLEY.  133 


A  mighty  tyrant  she  ! 
Long,  alas  !  should  I  have  been 
Under  that  iion-sceptred  queen, 
Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 
'Twas  then  a  golden  time  with  me  : 
But  soon  those  pleasures  fled  ; 
For  the  gracious  princess  died 
In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 

One  month,  three  days,  and  half  an  hour, 
Judith  held  the  sovereign  power. 
Wondrous  beautiful  her  face  ; 
But  so  weak  and  small  her  wit 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 
And  so  Susanna  took  her  place. 

But,  when  Isabella  came, 
Armed  with  a  resistless  flame, 
And  the  artillery  of  her  eye. 
Whilst  she  proudly  marched  about, 
Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 
She  beat  out  Susan  by  the  bye. 

But  in  her  place  I  then  obeyed 
Black-eyed  Bess,  her  viceroy  made, — 
To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy. 
Thousand  worst  passions  then  possessed 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast. 
Bless  me  from  such  an  anarchy  ! 

Gentle  Henrietta  then, 
And  a  third  Mary,  next  began  : 
Then  Joan,  and  Jane,  and  Audria  ; 
And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine. 
And  then  a  long  d  cater  a. 

But  should  I  now  to  you  relate 
The  strength  and  riches  of  their  state, 
The  powder,  patches,  and  the  pins. 
The  ribands,  jewels,  and  the  rings,  _ 
The  lace,  the  paint,  and  warlike  things, 
That  make  up  all  their  magazines  ; 

If  I  should  tell  the  politic  arts 
To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts. 
The  letters,  embassies,  and  spies, 
The  frowns,  the  smiles,  and  flatteries, 
The  quarrels,  tears,  and  perjuries, 
Numberless,  nameless  mysteries  ; — 


134  LOVELACE. 


And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid 
By  Machiavel  the  waiting-maid  ; 
I  more  voluminous  should  grow 
(Chiefly  if  I  like  them  should  tell 
AH  change  of  weathers  that  befell) 
Than  Holinshed  or  Stow. 

But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be, 
Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me. 
An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 
My  present  Emperess  does  claim, — 
Heleonora,  first  o'  the  name, 
Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign  ! 


RICHARD  LOVELACE. 

[Born  in  1618,  son  of  Sir  William  Lovelace,  of  Woolwicli  ;  died  in  I^ondon, 
1658.  He  was  twice  imprisoned  in  the  roya'l  cause — firstly,  in  the  Gatehouse, 
Westminster,  in  1642,  for  delivering  to  the  House  of  Commons  the  Kentish 
petition  "  for  restoring  the  king  to  his  rights  "&c.,  and  again  in  1648,  when 
he  remained  in  confinement  until  the  execution  of  Charles  I.  was  past.  His 
miscellaneous  poems  appeared  imder  the  \^\i\q  oi  Lucasta:  he  wrote  also  a 
tragedy  and  a  comedy,  never  printed.  Lovelace  died  in  poverty  and  obscurity, 
though  probably  not  in  such  abject  want  as  some  writers  have  represented. 
He  was,  in  his  early  youth,  "accounted,"  says  Wood,  "the  most  amiable  and 
beautiful  person  that  ever  eye  beheld  ;  a  person  also  of  innate  modesty,  virtue, 
and  courtly  deportment "]. 

TO  A  LADY  THAT  DESIRED  ME  I  WOULD  BEAR  MY  PART 
WITH  HETi  IN  A  SONG. 

MADAM  A.   L. 

This  is  the  prettiest  motion  !  ^ 
Madam,  the  alamms  of  a  drum 
That  calls  your  lord,  set  to  your  cries, 
To  mine  are  sacred  symphonies. 

What  though  'tis  said  I  have  a  voice  ; 
I  know  'tis  but  that  hollow  noise 
Which  (as  it  through  my  pipe  doth  speed) 
Bitterns  do  carol  through  a  reed  ; 
In  the  same  key  with  monkeys'  jigs, 
Or  dirges  of  proscribed  pigs, 
Or  the  soft  serenades  above 
In  calm  of  night,  when  cats  make  love. 

Was  ever  such  a  consort  seen  ?  « 

Fourscore-and-fourteen  with  fourteen ! 
Yet  sooner  they'll  agree,  one  pair, 
Than  we  in  our  spring-winter  air. 
They  may  embrace,  sigh,  kiss,  the  rest  : 

1  "Motion"  and  "drum"  mak^  up  a  very  extraordinary  rhyme.  True, 
Lovelace  was  loose  in  his  rhymes,  and  in  his  execution  generally:  yet  I  almost 
thinkaword  must  be  missed  here— perhaps  "come  !"  (in  the  sense  of  "go  to  !  ") 


LOVELACE.  135 


Our  breath  knows  nought  but  east  and  west. 
Thus  have  I  heard  to  children's  cries 
The  fair  nurse  still  such  lullabies 
That  well,  all  said  (for  what  there  lay), 
The  pleasure  did  the  sorrow  pay. 

Sure  there's  another  way  to  save 
Your  fancy,  madam  ;  that's  to  have 
('Tis  but  a  petitioning  kind  fate) 
The  organs  sent  to  Billingsgate, 
Where  they,  to  that  soft  murmurmg  choir. 
Shall  teach  you  all  you  can  admire  ! 
Or  do  but  hear  how  love-bang  Kate 
In  pantry  dark,  for  freage  of  mate, 
With  edge  of  steel  the  square  wood  shapes. 
And  Dido  ^  to  it  chaunts  or  scrapes. 
The  merry  Phaeton  o'  the  car, 
You'll  vow,  mades  a  melodious  jar  ; 
Sweeter  and  sweeter  whistleth  he 
To  unanointed  axletree  ; 
Such  swift  notes  he  and  's  wheels  do  run, 
For  me,  I  yield  him  Phcebus'  son. 

Say,  fair  commandress,  can  it  be 
You  should  ordain  a  mutiny  ? 
For,  where  I  howl,  all  accents  fall. 
As  kings'  harangues,  to  one  and  all. 

Ulysses'  art  is  now  withstood  ; 
You  ravish  both  with  sweet  and  good. 
Saint  Siren,  sing,  for  I  dare  hear  ; 
But,  when  I  ope,  oh  stop  your  ear  ! 

Far  less  be't  emulation 
To  pass  me  or  in  trill  or  tone, — 
Like  the  thin  throat  of  Philomel, 
And  the  smart  lute,  who  shouldexcel  ; 
As  if  her  soft  chords  should  begin,  _ 
And  strive  for  sweetness  with  the  pin." 

,Yet  can  I  music  too  ;  but  such 
As  is  beyond  all  voice  or  touch. 
My  mind  can  in  fair  order  chime, 
Whilst  my  true  heart  still  beats  the  time. 
My  soul's  so  full  of  harmony 
That  it  with  all  parts  can  agree. 
If  you  wind  up  to  the  highest  fret,^ 
It  sliall  descend  an  eight  from  it  ; 
And,  when  you  shall  vouchsafe  to  fall, 


1  The  ballad  of  Queen  Dido.     "  Love-bang"  seems  to  mean  "  fond  of  noise, 
obstreperous."     "  Freage  "  is  a  word  unknown  to  me. 

2  A  musical  peg. 

3  A  piece  of  wire  attached  to  the  finger-board  of  a  guitar. 


J  36  LOVELACE. 


Sixteen  above  you  it  shall  call, 
And  yet,  so  dis-assenting  one. 
They  both  shall  meet  in  unison. 

Come  then,  blight  cherubim,  begin  ! 
My  loudest  music  is  within. 
Take  all  notes  with  your  skilful  eyes  ; 
Hark  if  mine  do  not  sympathize  ! 
Sound  all  my  thoughts,  and  see  expressed 
The  tablature  of  my  large  breast. 
Then  you'll  admit  that  I  too  can 
Music  above  dead  sounds  of  man  ; 
Such  as  alone  doth  bless  the  spheres, 
Not  to  be  reached  with  human  ears. 


THE  DUEL. 
Love  drunk,  the  other  day,  knocked  at  my  breast ; 

But  I,  alas  !  was  not  within. 
My  man,  my  ear,  told  me  he  came  to  attest 

That  without  cause  he'd  boxed  him; 
And  battered  the  windows  of  mine  eyes. 
And  took  my  neart  for  one  of's  nunneries. 

I  wondered  at  the  outrage,  safe  returned, 

And  stormed  at  the  base  affront ; 
And  by  a  friend  of  mine,  bold  faith,  that  burned, 

I  called  him  to  a  strict  accompt. 
He  said  that,  by  the  law,  the  challenged  might 
Take  the  advantage  both  of  arms  and  fight. 

Two  darts  of  equal  length  and  points  he  sent, 

And  nobly  gave  the  choice  to  me  ; 
Which  I  not  weighed,  young  and  indifferent, ' 

Now  full  of  nought  but  victory. 
So  we  both  met  in  one  of  his  mother's  groves  ; — 
The  time,  at  the  first  murmuring  of  her  doves. 

I  stripped  myself  naked  all  o'er,  as  he  : 
For  so  I  was  best  armed,  when  bare. 

His  first  pass  did  my  liver  raze  :  yet  I 
Made  home  a  falsify-*  too  near : 

For,  when  my  arm  to  its  true  distance  came, 

I  nothing  touched  but  a  fantastic  flame. 

This,  this  is  Love  we  daily  quarrel  so, — 

An  idle  Don-Quichoterie : 
We  whip  ourselves  with  our  own  twisted  woe, 

And  wound  the  air  for  a  fly. 
The  only  way  to  undo  this  enemy 
Is  to  laugh  at  the  boy,  and  he  will  cry. 

1   "To  falsify  a  thrust,"  says  Phillips   [World  of  Words),   "is  to  make  a 
feigned  pass."     Lovelace  here  employs  the  word  as  a  substantive.  


LOVELACE.  137 


THE  SNAIL. 

Wise  emblem  of  om-  politic  world, 
Sage  Snail,  within  thine  own  self  curled. 
Instruct  me  softly  to  make  haste, 
•  Whilst  these  my  feet  go  slowly  fast. 

Compendious  Snail  '  thou  seem'st  to  me 
Large  Euclid's  strict  epitome  : 
And  in  each  diagram  dost  fling 
Thee  from  the  point  unto  the  ring. 
A  figure  now  triangular, 
And  oval  now,  and  now  a  square, 
And  then  a  serpentine,  dost  crawl ; 
Now  a  straight  line,  now  crook'd,  now  all. 

Preventing  rival  of  the  day, 
Thou  art  up  and  openest  thy  ray  ; 
And,  ere  the  morn  cradles  the  moon, 
Thou  art  broke  into  a  beauteous  noon. 
Then,  when  the  Sun  sups  in  the  deep. 
Thy  silver  horns  ere  Cynthia's  peep  ; 
And  thou,  from  thine  own  liquid  bed, 
New  Phoebus,  heav'st  thy  pleasant  head. 

Who  shall  a  name  for  thee  create, 
Deep  riddle  of  mysterious  state  ? 
Bold  Nature,  that  gives  common  birth 
To  all  products  of  seas  and  earth. 
Of  thee,  as  earthquakes,  is  afraid, 
Nor  will  thy  dire  delivery  aid. 

Thou,  thine  own  daughter,  then,  and  sire, 
That  son  and  mother  art  entire, 
That  big  still  with  thy  self  dost  go. 
And  liv'st  an  aged  embryo  ; 
That,  like  the  cubs  of  India, . 
Thou  from  thyself  awhile  dost  play  ; 
But,  frighted  with  a  dog  or  gun, 
In  thine  own  belly  thou  dost  run. 
And  as  thy  house  was  thine  own  womb, 
So  thine  own  womb  concludes  thy  tombi 

But  now  I  must  (analysed  king) 
Thy  economic  virtues  sing  ; 
Thou  great  staid  husband  still  within, 
Thou  thee  (that's  thine)  dost  discipline  ; 
And,  when  thou  art  to  progress  bent, 
Thou  mov'st  thy  self  and  tenement. 
As  warlike  Scythians  travelled,  you 
Remove  your  men  and  city  too. 


138  STANLEY. 


Then,  after  a  sad  dearth  and  rain, 
Thou  scatterest  thy  silver  train  ; 
And,  when  the  trees  grow  nak'd  and  old, 
Thou  cloathest  them  M'ith  cloth  of  gold, 
Which  from  thy  bowels  thou  dost  spin, 
And  draw  from  the  rich  mines  within. 

Now  hast  thou  changed  thee  saint,  and  made 
Thyself  a  fane  that's  cupulaed  ; 
And  in  thy  wreathed  cloister  thou 
Walkest  thine  own  grey-friar  too  ; 
Strict  and  locked  up,  thou  art  hood  all  o'er, 
And  ne'er  eliminat'st  thy  door. 
On  salads  thou  dost  feed  severe, 
And  'stead  of  beads  thou  dropp'st  a  tear. 
And,  when  to  rest  each  calls  the  bell, 
Thou  sleep'st  within  thy  marble  cell, 
Where,  in  dark  contemplation  placed. 
The  sweets  of  Nature  thou  dost  taste  ; 
Who  now,  with  Time,  thy  days  resolve, 
And  in  a  jelly  thee  dissolve, — 
Like  a  shot  star,  which  doth  repair 
Upward,  and  rarify  the  air. 


THOMAS  STANLEY. 

[Son  of  a  knight  in  Hertfordshire  :  bom  in  1620,  died  in  1678.  Author  of  a 
laborious  History  of  Philosophy,  and  of  various  poetical  compositions,  includ- 
ing translations  from  the  classic  and  some  modern  languages]. 

NOTE  ON  ANACREON. 

Let's  not  rhyme  the  hours  away  ; 

Friends  !  we  must  no  longer  play  : 

Brisk  Lyseus — see  ! — invites  ^ 

To  more  I'avishing  delights. 

Let's  give  o'er  this  fool  Apollo, 

Nor  his  fiddle  longer  follow  : 

Fie  upon  his  forked  hill. 

With  his  fiddlestick  and  quill ! 

And  the  Muses,  though  they're  gamesome, 

They  are  neither  young  nor  handsome  ; 

And  their  freaks,  in  sober  sadness, 

Are  a  mere  poetic  madness  : 

Pegasus  is  but  a  horse  ; 

He  that  follows  him  is  worse. 

See,  the  rain  soaks  to  the  skin, — 

Make  it  rain  as  well  within. 

Wine,  my  boy  !  we'll  sing  and  laugh, 

All  night  revel,  rant,  and  quaff; 


STANLEY.  139 


Till  the  mom,  stealing  behind  us, 

At  the  table  sleepless  find  us. 

When  our  bones,  alas  !  shall  have 

A  cold  lodging  in  the  grave. 

When  swift  Death  shall  overtake  us, 

We  shall  sleep  and  none  can  wake  us. 

Drink  we  then  the  juice  o'  the  vine, 

Make  our  breasts  Lyffius'  shrine. 

Bacchus,  our  debauch  beholding, — 

By  thy  image  I  am  moulding, 

Whilst  my  brains  I  do  replenish 

With  this  draught  of  unmixed  Rhenish  ; 

By  thy  full-branched  ivy-twine  ; 

By  this  sparkling  glass  of  wine  ; 

By  thy  thyrsus  so  renowned  ; 

By  the  healths  with  which  thou'rt  crowned 

By  the  feasts  which  thou  dost  prize  ; 

By  thy  numerous  victories  ; 

By  the  howls  by  Mcenads  made  ; 

By  this  haut-gout  carbonade  ; 

By  thy  colours  red  and  white  ; 

By  the  tavern,  thy  delight  ; 

By  the  sound  thy  orgies  spread  ; 

By  the  shine  of  noses  red  ; 

By  thy  table  free  for  all ; 

By  the  jovial  carnival ; 

By  thy  language  cabalistic  ; 

By  thy  cymbal,  drum,  and  his  stick  ; 

By  the  tunes  thy  quart-pots  strike  up  ; 

By  thy  sighs,  the  broken  hiccup  ; 

By  thy  mystic  set  of  ranters  ; 

By  thy  never-tamed  panthers  ; 

By  this  sweet,  this  fresh  and  free  air  ; 

By  thy  goat,  as  chaste  as  we  arc  ; 

By  thy  fulsome  Cretan  lass  ; 

By  the  old  man  on  the  ass  ; 

By  thy  cousins  in  mixed  shapes  ; 

By  the  flower  of  fairest  grapes  ; 

By  thy  bisks  fajned  far  and  wide  ; 

By  thy  store  of  neats'-tongues  dried  ; 

By  thy  incense,  Indian  smoke  ; 

By  the  joys  thou  dost  provoke  ; 

By  this  salt  Westphalia  gammon  ; 

By  these  sausages  that  inflame  one  ; 

By  thy  tail  majestic  flagons  ; 

By  mass,  tope,  and  thy  flapdragons  ; 

By  this  olive's  unctuous  savour  ; 

By  this  orange,  the  wine's  flavour  ; 

By  this  cheese  o'errun  with  miles ; 

By  thy  dearest  favourites  ; — 


140  MARVELL. 


To  tliy  frolic  order  call  us, 
Knights  of  the  deep  bowl  install  us  ; 
And,  to  show  thyself  divine, 
Never  let  it  want  for  wine. 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 

[Born  at  Hull,  1620  ;  died  on  i6th  August  1678,  with  some  vague  suspicion 
of  poison.  He  became  assistant  to  Milton  as  Cromwell's  Latin  secretary,  and 
was  afterwards  {1660)  elected  to  Parliament,  where  he  continued  till  the  close 
of  his  life — a  zealous  delegate  of  his  constituents,  and  opponent  of  arbitrary 
measures.  Marvell  appears,  in  biographic  and  political  record,  as  a  thoroughly 
manly  person  ;  and  the  same  is  the  prevailing  character  of  his  poetic  work. 
We  observe  vigorous  strenuous  lines,  a  bluff  and  sometimes  boisterous  humour, 
keen  fencing-play  of  wit,  a  strong  temper,  as  ready  to  overstate  a  prejudice  as 
to  pile  a  panegyric  ;  often  too  a  sharp  thrill  of  tenderness,  and  a  full  sense  and 
full  power  of  expressing  beauty]. 

MOURNING. 

You  that  decipher  out  the  fate 

Of  human  offsprings  from  the  skies, 
What  mean  these  infants  which  of  late 

Spring  from  the  stars  of  Chlora's  eyes  ? 

Her  eyes,  confused  and  doubled  o'er 
'  With  tears  suspended  ere  they  flow, 
Seem  bending  upwards,  to  restore 

To  heaven,  whence  it  came,  their  woe  : — 

When,  moulding  of  the  watery  spheres, 

Slow  drops  untie  themselves  away  ; 
As  if  she,  with  those  precious  tears. 

Would  strew  the  ground  where  Strephon  lay. 

Yet  some  affirm,  pretending  art, 

Her  eyes  have  so  her  bosom  drowned. 

Only  to  soften,  near  her  heart, 
A  place  to  fix  another  wound. 

And,  while  vain  pomp  does  her  restrain 

Within  her  solitary  bower, 
She  courts  herself  in  amorous  rain  ; 

Herself  both  Danae  and  the  shower. 

Nay,  others,  bolder,  hence  esteem 

Joy  now  so  much  her  master  grown 
That  whatsoever  does  but  seem 

Like  grief  is  from  her  windows  thrown  ; — 

Nor  that  she  pays,  while  she  survives, 

To  her  dead  love  this  tribute  due  ; 
But  casts  abroad  these  donatives 

At  the  installing  of  a  new. 


MARVELL.  141 


How  wide  they  dveam  !  the  Indian  slaves 
Who  sink  for  pearl  through  seas  profound 

Would  find  her  tears  yet  deeper  waves, 
And  not  of  one  the  bottom  sound. 

I  yet  my  silent  judgment  keep, 
Disputing  not  what  they  believe  : 

But  sure,  as  oft  as  women  weep, 
It  is  to  be  supposed  they  grieve. 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  HOLLAND. 
Holland,  that  scarce  deserves  the  name  of  land, 
As  but  the  offscouring  of  the  British  sand. 
And  so  much  earth  as  was  contributed 
By  English  pilots  when  they  heaved  the  lead. 
Or  what  by  the  ocean's  slow  alluvion  fell, 
Of  shipwrecked  cockle  and  the  mussel-shell, — 
This  indigested  vomit  of  the  sea 
Fell  to  the  Dutch  by  just  propriety. 

Glad  then,  as  miners  who  have  found  the  ore, 
They,  with  mad  labour,  fished  the  land  to  shore, 
And  dived  as  desperately  for  each  piece 
Of  earth  as  if 't  had  been  of  ambergreece  ; 
Collecting  anxiously  small  loads  of  clay, 
Less  than  what  building  swallows  bear  away, 
Or  than  those  pills  which  sordid  beetles  roll, 
Transfusing  into  them  their  dunghill  soul. 
How  did  they  rivet,  with  gigantic  piles, 
Thorough  the  centre  their  new-catched  miles. 
And  to  the  slake  a  struggling  country  bound, 
Where  barking  waves  still  bait  the  forced  ground 
Building  their  watery  Babel  far  more  high. 
To  reach  the  sea,  than  those  to  scale  the  sky ! 
'    Yet  still  his  claim  the  injured  ocean  laid. 
And  oft  at  Iq^ip-frog  o'er  their  steeples  played  ; 
As  if  on  puqiose  it  on  land  had  come 
To  show  tliem  what's  their  mare  libertim. 
A  daily  deluge  over  them  does  boil ; 
The  earth'  and  water  play  at  level-coyl. 
The  fish  oft-times  the  burgher  dispossessed, 
And  sat,  not  as  a  meat,  but  as  a  guest  ; 
And  oft  the  tritons  and  the  sca-nymphs  saw 
Whole  shoals  of  Dutch  served  up  for  cabillau  ; 
Or,  as  they  over  the  new  level  ranged, 
For  pickled  herring,  pickled  heeren  changed. 
Nature,  it  seemed,  ashamed  of  her  mistake. 
Would  throw  their  land  away  at  duck  and  drake 
Therefore  necessity,  that  first  made  kings, 
Something  like  government  among  them  brings. 
For,  as  with  pygmies,  who  best  kills  the  crane, 


142  MARVELL. 


Among  the  hungry  he  that  treasures  grain, 
Among  the  blind  the  one-eyed  blinkard  reigns, 
So  rules  among  the  drowned  he  that  drains. 
Not  who  first  see  the  rising  sun  commands, 
But  who  could  first  discern  the  rising  lands. 
Who  best  could  know  to  pump  an  earth  so  leak, 
Him  they  their  lord  and  country's  father  speak. 
To  make  a  bank  was  a  great  plot  of  state  ; 
Invent  a  shovel,  and  be  a  magistrate. 
Hence  some  small  dyke-grave,  unperceived,  invades 
The  power,  and  grows,  as  'twere,  a  king  of  spades  ; 
But,  for  less  envy,  some  joined  states  endures, 
Who  look  like  a  commission  of  the  sewers  : 
For  these  half-anders,  half  wet  and  half  dry, 
Nor  bear  strict  service  nor  pure  liberty. 

'Tis  probable  religion,  after  this. 
Came  next  in  order  ;  which  they  could  not  miss. 
How  could  the  Dutch  but  be  converted  when 
The  apostles  were  so  many  fishermen  ? 
Besides,  the  waters  of  themselves  did  rise. 
And,  as  their  land,  so  them  did  re-baptize  ; 
Though  Herring^  for  their  God  few  voices  missed, 
And  Poor-John  to  have  been  the  evangelist. 
Faith,  that  could  never  twins  conceive  before, 
Never  so  fertile,  spawned  upon  this  shore 
More  pregnant  than  their  Margaret,  that  lay  down, 
For  Hans-in-Kelder,  of  a  whole  Hans-town. 

Sure,  wlien  religion  did  itself  embark. 
And  from  the  east  would  westward  steer  its  ark, 
It  struck,  and,  splitting  on  this  unknown  ground, 
Each  one  thence  pillaged  the  first  piece  he  found  : 
Hence  Amsterdam,  Turk-Christian-Pagan-Jew, 
Staple  of  sects  and  mint  of  schism  grew  ; 
That  bank  of  conscience,  where  not  one  so  strange 
Opinion  but  finds  credit  and  exchange. 
In  vain  for  Catholics  ourselves  we  bear  ; 
The  Universal  Church  is  only  there. 
Nor  can  civility  there  want  for  tillage. 
Where  wisely  for  their  court  they  chose  a  village. 
How  fit  a  title  clothes  their  governors, — 
Themselves  the  hogs,  as  all  their  subjects  hoars  ! 
Let  it  suffice,  to  give  their  country  fame, 
That  it  had  one  Civilis  called  by  name, 
Some  fifteen  hundred  and  more  years  ago  ; 
But  surely  never  any  that  was  so. 

See  but  their  mairmaids,  with  their  tails  of  fish. 
Reeking  at  church  over  the  chafing  dish. 

1  See  the  pun,  on  p.  141,  between  "herring"  and  "  heeren."  Here  agahi 
there  is  the  same  sort  of  pun  upon  "Hccr"  or  "  Herr"  in  its  signification  of 
"Lord"  (Cod). 


MARVELL.  143 


A  vestal  turf,  enshrined  in  earthenware, 

Fumes  through  the  loopholes  of  a  wooden  square. 

Each  to  the  temple  with  these  altars  tend, 

But  still  does  place  it  at  her  western  end  ; 

While  the  fat  steam  of  female  sacrifice 

Fills  the  priest's  nostrils,  and  puts  out  his  eyes. 
Or  what  a  spectacle  the  skipper  gross, 

A  water-Hercules,  butter-coloss. 

Tunned  up  with  all  their  several  towns  of  beer  ; 

When,  staggering  upon  some  land,  sniek  and  sneer, 

They  try,  like  statuaries,  if  they  can 

Cut  out  each  other's  Atlios  to  a  man ; 

And  carve  in  their  large  bodies,  where  they  please, 

The  arms  of  the  united  provinces. 

But,  when  such  amity  at  home  is  showed. 

What  then  are  their  confederacies  abroad  ? 

Let  this  one  courtesy  witness  all  the  rest ; 

When  their  whole  navy  they  together  pressed. 

Not  Christian  captives  to  redeem  from  bands, 

Or  intercept  the  western  golden  sands  ; 

No,  but  all  ancient  rights  and  leagues  must  fail, 

Rather  than  to  the  English  strike  their  sail ; 
To  whom  their  weather-beaten  province  owes 

Itself,  when,  as  some  greater  vessel  tov,'s 

A  cock-boat  tossed  with  the  same  wind  and  fate, 

We  buoyed  so  often  up  their  sinking  state. 
Was  thisy>«  belli  et  pads  ?     Could  this  be 
Cause  why  their  burgomaster  of  the  sea. 
Rammed  with  gunpowder,  flaming  with  brand-wine, 
Should  raging  hold  his  linstock  to  the  mine? 
While,  with  ifeigned  treaties,  they  invade  by  stealth 
Our  sore  new-circumcised  commonwealth. 
Yet  of  his  vain  attempt  no  more  he  sees 
Than  of  case-butter  shot  and  bullet-cheese  ; 
And  the  torn  navy  staggered  with  him  home. 
While  the  sea  laughed  itself  into  a  foam. 
'Tis  true,  since  that  (as  fortune  kindly  sports) 
A  wholesome  danger  drove  us  to  our  ports  ; 
While  half  their  banished  keels  the  tempest  tossed. 
Half  bound  at  home  in  prison  to  the  frost, 
That  ours,  meantime,  at  leisure  might  careen, 
In  a  calm  winter,  under  skies  serene, — 
As  the  obsequious  air  and  waters  rest 
'Till  the  dear  halcyon  hatch  out  all  its  nest. 
The  Commonwealth  doth  by  its  losses  grow, 
And,  like  its  own  seas,  only  ebbs  to  How. 
Besides,  that  very  agitation  laves. 
And  purges  out  the  corruptible  waves. 
And  now  again  our  armed  bucentore 
Doth  yearly  their  sea  nuptials  restore  ; 


144  VAUGHAN. 


And  now  the  hydra  of  seven  provinces 

Is  strangled  by  our  infant  Hercules. 

Their  tortoise  wants  its  vainly  stretched  neck  ; 

Their  navy,  all  our  conquest,  or  our  wreck  : 

Or  what  is  left  their  Carthage  overcome 

Would  render  fain  unto  our  better  Rome, — 

Unless  our  senate,  lest  their  youth  disuse 

The  war,  (but  who  would  ?)  peace,  if  begged,  refuse. 

For  now  of  nothing  may  our  state  despair. 

Darling  of  heaven,   and  of  men  the  care  ; 

Provided  that  they  be,  what  they  have  been, 

Watchful  abroad,  and  honest  still  within  ; 

For,  while  our  Neptune  doth  a  trident  shake 

Steeled  with  those  piercing  heads.  Dean,  Monck,  and  Blake, 

And  while  Jove  governs  in  the  highest  sphere, 

Vainly  in  hell  let  Pluto  domineer  ! 


HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

[  Born  at  Nev/ton,  near  Usk,  Monmouthshire,  1622,  of  an  ancient  line  ;  died, 
23  April  T695.  From  the  locality  of  his  birth  and  usual  residence,  he  termed 
himself  the  Silurist :  he  practised  as  a  physician  in  Brecon.  Like  the  great 
majority  of  the  poetical  writers  of  the  time,  he  was  on  the  side  of  royalism. 
Vaughan  has  continued  to  enjoy  a  certain  reputation  among  literary  students, 
chiefly  as  a  satellite  of  George  Herbert,  and  sometimes  almost  his  rival.  The 
quality  and  degree  of  his  poetic  excellence  are,  however,  in  fact,  very  uncom- 
mon. He  is  in  various  respects  diverse  from  Herbert,  and  in  some  even  supe- 
rior to  him :  he  has  a  larger  range,  and,  in  point  of  thought  and  of  perception, 
a  certain  subtlety  mingled  with  intensity  which  brings  him  into  specially  close 
relation  to  the  modern  tone  in  poetry.  It  may  be  hoped  that  the  writings  of 
this  fine  thinker  and  deep  poet  will  be  better  known  henceforth,  in  consequence 
of  the  zealous  care  with  which  he  has  been  lately  edited  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gro- 
sart  in  his  important  series,  Thi  Fuller  IVoythies  Library.  Of  course  a  volume 
of  Humorous  Poetry  is  not  the  place  where  the  deserVings  of  Vaughan  can  be 
shown  forth  in  any  sufficient  measure]. 

TO  HIS  RETIRED  FRIEND,  AN  INVITATION  TO  BRECKNOCK. 
Since  last  we  met,  thou  and  thy  horse,  my  dear, 
Have  not  so  much  as  drunk  or  littered  here. 
I  wonder,  though  thyself  be  thus  deceased, 
Thou  hast  the  spite  to  coffin  up  thy  beast ; 
Or  is  the  palfrey  sick,  anel  his  rough  hide 
With  the  penance  of  one  spur  mortified  ? 
Or  taught  by  thee — like  Pythagoras's  ox — 
Is  than  his  master  grown  more  orthodox  ? 
Whatever  'tis,  a  sober  cause't  must  be 
That  thus  long  bars  us  of  thy  company. 
The  town  believes  thee  lost ;  and,  didst  thou  see 
But  half  her  sufferings,  now  distressed  for  thee, 
Thou'ldst  swear — like  Rome — her  foul  polluted  walls 
Were  sacked  by  Brennus  and  the  salvage  Gauls. 
Abominable  face  of  things  !     Here's  noise 
Of  banged  mortars,  blue  aprons,  and  boys, 


VAUGHAN.  145 


Pigs,  dogs,  and  drums,  with  the  hoarse  hellish  notes 
Of  politicly-deaf  usurers^  throats. 
With  new  fine  Worships,  and  the  old  cast  team 
Of  Justices  vexed  with  the  cough  and  phlegm. 
Midst  these  the  Cross  looks  sad,  and  in  the  Shire- 
Hall  furs  of  an  old  Saxon  Fox  appear, 
With  brotherly  ruffs  and  beards,  and  a  strange  sight 
Of  high  monumental  hats,  ta'en  at  the  fight 
Of  Eighty  eight  ,:  while  every  Burgess  foots 
The  mortal  pavement  in  eternal  boots. 

Hadst  thou  been  bachelor,  I  had  soon  divined 
Thy  close  retirements  and  monastic  mind  ; 
Perhaps  some  nymph  had  been  to  visit,  or 
The  beauteous  churl  was  to  be  waited  for. 
And,  like  the  Greek,  ere  you  the  sport  would  miss, 
You  stayed,  and  stroked  the  distaff  for  a  kiss. 
But  in  this  age,  when  thy  cool  settled  blood 
Is  tied  to  one  flesh,  and  thou  almost  grown  good, 
I  know  not  how  to  reach  the  strange  device. 
Except — Domitian-like — thou  murderest  flies. 
Or  is't  thy  piety?  for  who  can  tell 
But  thou  mayst  prove  devout,  and  love  a  cell. 
And — like  a  badger — with  attentive  looks 
In  the  dark  hole  sit  rooting  up  of  books. 
Quick  hermit !  what  a  peaceful  change  hadst  thou, 
Without  the  noise  of  hair-cloth,  whip,  or  vow  ! 
But  is  there  no  redemption  ?  must  there  be 
No  other  penance  but  of  liberty  ? 
Why  !  two  months  hence,  if  thou  continue  thus. 
Thy  memory  will  scarce  remain  with  us. 
The  drawers  have  forgot  thee,  and  exclaim 
They  have  not  seen  thee  here  since  Charles  his  reign  ; 
Or,  if  they  mention  thee,  like  some  old  man 
That  at  each  word  inserts — "  Sir,  as  I  can 
Remember  " — so  the  Cipherers  puzzle  me 
With  a  dark  cloudy  character  of  thee  ; 
That — certs — I  fear  thou  wilt  be  lost,  and  we 
Must  ask  the  fathers,  ere't  be  long,  for  thee. 

Come  !  leave  this  sullen  state,  and  let  not  wine 
And  precious  wit  lie  dead  for  want  of  thine. 
Shall  the  dull  market  landlord,  with  his  rout 
Of  sneaking  tenants,  dirtily  swill  out 
This  harmless  liquor?  shall  they  knock  and  beat 
For  sack,  only  to  talk  of  rye  and  wheat  ? 
Oh  let  not  such  preposterous  tippling  be 
In  our  metropolis  ;  may  I  ne'er  see 
Such  tavern-sacrilege,  nor  lend  a  line 
To  weep  the  rapes  and  tragedy  of  wine  ! 
Here  lives  that  chemic,  quick  fire  which  belrays 
Fresli  spirits  to  tlie  IjIoocI,  and  warms  cur  lavs. 


146  BROME. 


I  have  reserved  'gainst  thy  approach  a  cup 

That,  were  thy  Muse  stark  dead,  shall  raise  her  up, 

And  teach  hei  yet  more  charming  words  and  skill 

Than  ever  Coelia,  Chioris,  Astrophil, 

Or  any  of  the  threadbare  names,  inspired 

Poor  rhyming  lovers,  with  a  mistress  fired. 

Come  then  !  and,  while  the  slow  icicle  hangs 

At  the  stiff  thatch,  and  Winter's  frosty  pangs 

Benumb  the  year,  blithe — as  of  old — let  us, 

'Midst  noise  and  war,  of  peace  and  mirth  discuss. 

This  portion  thou  wert  born  for  :  why  should  we 

Vex  at  the  time's  ridiculous  misery  ? 

An  age  that  thus  hath  fooled  itself,  and  will 

— Spite  of  thy  teeth  and  mine — persist  so  still  ! 

Let's  sit  then  at  this  fire  ;  and,  while  we  steal 

A  revel  in  the  town,  let  others  seal. 

Purchase,  or  cheat,  and  who  can,  let  them  pay. 

Till  those  black  deeds  bring  on  the  darksome  day. 

Innocent  spenders  we  !  a  better  use 

Shall  wear  out  our  short  lease,  and  leave  the  obtuse 

Rout  to  their  husks.     They  and  their  bags  at  best 

Have  cares  in  earnest  ;  we,  care  for  a  jest. 


ALEXANDER  BROME. 

[I'orn  in  1623,  died  in  i666.  Was  an  untiring  producer  of  verse  in  ridicule  of 
the  Puritans  and  the  parliamentary  party  :  it  has  even  been  said  that  he  "was  the 
author  of  the  greater  part  of  the  songs  and  epigrams  published  against  the 
Kump."  He  was  also  concerned  in  translations  of  Horace  and  Lucretius,  and 
other  literary  work.     His  profession  was  that  of  attorney]. 

THE  PRISONERS. 

Come,  a  brimmer,  my  bullies  !  drink  whole  ones  or  nothing. 

Now  healths  have  been  voted  down. 
'Tis  sack  that  can  heat  us  ;  we  care  not  for  clothing, — 
A  gallon's  as  warm  as  a  gown. 

'Cause  the  Parliament  sees 

Nor  the  former  nor  these 
Could  engage  us  to  drink  their  health,  .-  . 

They  may  vote  that  we  shall 

Drink  no  healths  at  all. 
Not  to  King  nor  to  Commonwealth, 
So  that  now  we  must  venture  to  drink  'em  l)y  stealth. 

But  we've  found  out  a  way,  that's  beyond  all  their  thinking. 

To  keep  up  good-fellowship  still 
We'll  drink  their  destruction  that  would  destroy  drinking, — 

Let  'em  vote  (hat  a  health  if  they  will ! 


BROME.  147 


Those  men  that  did  fight, 

And  did  pray  day  and  night, 
For  the  Parliament  and  its  attendant, 

Did  make  all  that  bustle 

The  Kmg  out  to  justle, 
And  bring  in  the  Independent, 
But  now  we  all  clearly  see  what  was  the  end  on't.^ 

Now  their  idol's  thrown  down  with  their  sooterkin  also 

About  which  they  did  make  such  a  pother  • 
And,  though  their  contrivance  did  make  one  thing  to  fall  so 
W  e  have  drank  ourselves  into  another  ;  ' 

And  now,  my  lads,  we 

May  still  Cavaliers  be, 
In  spite  of  the  Committee's  frown  ; 

We  will  drink  and  we'll  s'ing. 

And  each  health  to  our  King 
Shall  be  loyally  drunk  in  the    '  Cronm," 
Which  shall  be  the  standard  in  every  town. 

Their  politic  would-be's  do  but  show  themselves  asses 

1  hat  other  men's  calling  invade  ; 
We  only  converse  Avith  pots  and  with  glasses,— 
Let  the  rulers  alone  with  their  trade. 

The  Lion  of  the  Tower 

Their  estates  does  devour, 
Without  showing  law  for't  or  reason  ; 

Into  prison  we  get 

For  the  crime  called  debt, 
Where  our  bodies  and  brains  we  do  season, 
And  that  is  ne'er  taken  for  murder  or  treason. 

Where  o^rjlitties  still  be,  "  Give's  more  drink,  give's  more  drink, 

Let  those  that  are  frugal  take  care  1 " 
Our  gaolers  and  we  will  live  by  our  chink,  boys, 
Willie  our  creditors  live  by  the  air. 
Here  we  live  at  our  ease, 
,„,,,       ,  -^"d  get  craft  and  grease, 
I  111  we  ve  merrily  spent  all  our  store  ; 
Then,  as  drink  brought  us  in, 
Twill  redeem  us  agen  ; 
We  got  in  because  we  were  poor, 
And  swear  ourselves  out  on  the  very  same  score. 


1  A  reference  to  the  project  of  making  Cromwell  kir 


148  ,  DRYDEM. 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 

[Born  in  Aldwinkle  All  Saints,  Northamptonshire,  towards  1631 ;  died  in 
London,  i  May  1700J. 

ON  THE  YOUNG  STATESMEN. 

WRITTEN    IN  1680. 

Clarendon  had  law  and  sense  ; 

Clifford  was  fierce  and  brave  : 
Bennet's  grave  look  was  a  pretence  ; 
And  Danby's  matchless  impudence 

Helped  to  support  the  knave. 

But  Sunderland,  Godolphin,  Lory, 
These  will  appear  such  chits  in  story 

'Twill  turn  all  politics  to  jests, — 
To  be  repeated  like  John  Dory, 

When  fiddlers  sing  at  feasts. 

Protect  us,  mighty  Providence ! 

What  would  these  madmen  have? 
First,  they  would  bribe  us  M'ithout  pence. 
Deceive  us  without  common  sense, 

And  without  power  enslave. 

Shall  freeborn  men,  in  humble  awe, 

Submit  to  servile  shame, — 
Who  from  consent  and  custom  draw 
The  same  right  to  be  ruled  by  law 

W^hich  kings  pretend  to  reign  ? 

The  duke  shall  wield  his  conquering  sword, 
The  chancellor  make  a  speech. 

The  king  shall  pass  his  honest  word. 

The  pawned  revenue  sums  afford, 
And  then,  come  kiss  my  breech. 

So  have  I  seen  a  king  on  chess 

(His  rooks  and  knights  withdrawn, 

His  queen  and  bishops  in  distress) 

Shifting  about  grow  less  and  less. 
With  here  and  there  a  pawn. 


ICA  THARINE  PHILIPS.  149 


KATHARINE  PHILIPS. 

[Born  towards  1632,  died  of  small-pox  in  1664.  Her  maiden  name  was  Fow- 
ler, and  she  married  James  Philips  Esq.,  of  the  Priory  of  Cardigan.  Herself 
and  all  her  immediate  society  assumed  philandering  fancy-names  :  she  was 
"  Orinda,"  or,  as  several  of  her  highly  distinguished  contemporaries  lavishly 
called  her,  "the  matchless  Orinda."  Some  of  her  poems  got  about  during  her 
brief  lifetime,  but  without  her  sanction.  Orinda,  though  not  exactly  "match- 
less," must  have  been  a  very  gifted  woman — of  elevated  mind  and  character, 
warm  attachments,  and  no  inconsiderable  poetic  endowment  :  she  was  full 
mistress  of  the  faculty  of  nervous  and  direct  expression  in  verse]. 

TO  ANTENOR,! 

ON  A  PAPER  OF  MINE  WHICH  J.  J.   THREATENS  TO    PUBLISH  TO  PREJUDICE  HIM. 

Must  then  my  crimes  become  thy  scandal  too? 

Why,  sure  the  devil  hath  not  much  to  do  ! 

The  weakness  of  the  other  cliarge  is  clear, 

When  such  a  trifle  must  bring  up  the  rear. 

But  this  is  mad  design,  for  who  before 

Lost  his  repute  upon  another's  score? 

My  love  and  life,  I  must  confess,  are  thine, — 

But  not  my  errors,  they  are  only  mine. 

And,  if  my  faults  must  be  for  thine  allowed. 

It  will  be  hard  to,  dissipate  the  cloud  : 

For  Eve's  rebellion  did  not  Adam  blast, 

Until  himself  forbidden  fruit  did  taste, 

'Tis  possible  this  magazine  of  hell 

(Whose  name  would  turn  a  verse  into  a,  spell. 

Whose  mischief  is  congenial  to  his  life) 

May  yet  enjoy  an  honourable  wife. 

Nor  let  his  ill  be  reckoned  as  her  blame, 

Nor  yet  my  follies  blast  Antenor's  name. 

But,  if  those  lines  a  punishment  coidd  call 

Lasting  and  great  as  this  dark-lantern's  gall, 

Alone  I'd  court  the  torments  with  content. 

To  testify  that  thou  art  innocent. 

So,  if  my  ink  through  malice  proved  a  stain, 

My  blood  should  justly  wash  it  off  again. 

But,  since  that  mint  of  slander  could  invent 

To  make  so  dull  a  rhyme  his  instrument. 

Let  verse  revenge  the  quarrel.     But  he's  worse 

Than  wishes,  and  below  a  poet's  curse ; 

And  more  than  this  wit  knows  not  how  to  give, — 

Let  him  be  still  himself,  and  let  him  live. 


1  The  authoress's  husband. 


ISO  DORSET. 


EARL  OF  DORSET  (CHARLES  SACKVILLE). 

[Born  in  1637,  died  in  1706.  Witty  and  dissipated  in  his  youth,  he  became, 
as  age  advanced,  a  political  personage  of  some  importance,  and,  concurring  in 
the  revolution  under  William  III.,  was  created  Lord  Chamberlain  of  the 
Household.     He  was  at  all  times  a  generous  supporter  of  men  of  genius], 

SONG.i 

To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land 

We  men  at  sea  indite  ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write  ; 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too. 
We  must  implore,  to  write  to  you, 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la.^ 

For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind. 

And  fill  our  empty  brain, 
Yet,  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen  and  ink,  and  we. 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea. 

Then,  if  we  write  not  by  each  post, 

Think  not  we  are  unkind  ; 
Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost. 

By  Dutchmen  or  by  wind  ; 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way, — 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a-dayo 

The  king,  with  wonder  and  surprise. 

Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold, 
Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise 

Than  e'er  they  used  of  old  : 
But  let  him  know,  it  is  our  tears 
Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story. 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree  : 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  behind? 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst. 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind  ; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapour,  Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find  : 

1  Written  at  sea  in  the  Dutch  War,  1665  :  composed  (or  at  any  rate  completed) 
the  night  before  the  great  engagement  in  which  the  Dutch  Admiral,  Opdam, 
and  all  his  crew,  were  blown  up. 

2  Burden  repeated  to  each  stanza. 


WALSH.  151 


'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go, 
Or  who's  our  friend,  or  who's  our  foe. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away, 

We  throw  a  merry  main, 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play : 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  ? 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow, 

And  cast  our  hopes  away ; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe, 

Sit  careless  at  a  play  ; 
Perhaps,  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear. 

That  dies  in  every  note, 
As  if  it  sighed  with  each  man's  care 

For  being  so  remote. 
Think  then  how  often  love  we've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  played. 

In  justice  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress. 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honour  lose 

Our  certain  happiness  ; 
All  those  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love. 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears. 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  from  your  tears  ; 
Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy, — 
We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


WILLIAM  WALSH. 

[Born  in  1663,  died  towards  1709.  He  was  a  friend  of  Dryden,  who  termed 
him,  "the  best  critic  of  our  nation:"  he  also  encouraged  Pope  in  his  early 
career]. 

THE  DESPAIRING  LOVER. 

Distracted  witli  care 

For  Phyllis  the  fair  ; 

Since  nothing  could  move  her, 

Poor  Damon,  her  lover, 

Resolves  in  despair 

No  longer  to  languish, 


I  ^2  PRIOR. 


Nor  bear  so  much  anguish; 
But,  mad  with  his  love, 
To  a  precipice  goes, 
Where  a  leap  from  above 
Would  soon  finish  his  woes. 

When  in  rage  he  came  there, 

Beholdnig  how  steep 

The  sides  did  appear, 

And  the  bottom  how  deep  ; 

His  torments  projecting, 

And  sadly  reflecting 

That  a  lover  forsaken 

A  new  love  may  get. 

But  a  neck,  when  once  broken, 

Can  never  be  set ; 

And  that  he  could  die 
Wlienever  he  would, 
But  that  he  could  live 
But  as  long  as  lie  could  : — 
How  grievous  soever 
The  torment  might  grow, 
He  scorned  to  endeavour 
To  finish  it  so. 
But  bold,  unconcerned 
At  thoughts  of  the  pain. 
He  calmly  returned 
To  his  cottage  again. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR. 

fBorn  in  1664,  died  in  1721.  His  fatherwasajoiner  in  London  :  but  Matthew, 
under  the  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  was  even  in  boyhood  brought  into 
a  higher  social  sphere,  and  he  soon  became  a  pubHc  personage  of  consequence, 
deep  in  the  diplomatic  machinations  of  the  time,  as  well  as  a  successful  poet  of 
the  lighter  kind.  Beginning  as  a  Whig,  he  turned  into  a  Tory  in  1701  ;  acted 
as  ambassador  in  France  in  1713  ;  was  afterwards  impeached  for  his  share  in 
ncgociating  the  treaty  of  Utrecht  ;  and  remained  a  long  while  in  custody,  but 
was  finally  released  untried.  After  this  failure  of  his  political  career,  a  college- 
fellowship,  literature,  and  the  active  practical  friendship  of  Lord  Oxford,  formed 
his  chief  re.soiirces.  Prior  was  a  loose  liver  ;  and,  spite  of  his  high  station,  was 
not  disinclined  to  shift  off  at  times  his  outward  social  decorum.  "  I  have  been 
assured,"  says  Spence,  *'that  Prior — after  having  spent  the  evening  with  Ox- 
ford, Bolingbroke,  Pope,  and  Swift— would  go  and  smoke  a  pipe,  and  drink  a 
bottle  of  ale,  with  a  common  soldier  and  his  wife,  in  Long  Acre,  before  he  went 
to  bed"]. 

TO  A  CHILD  OF  QUALITY 

FIVE  YEARS  OLD,  I704,  THE  AUTHOR  THEN  FORTV. 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 
Were  summoned  by  her  high  command 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 


PRIOR.  153 

My  pen  amongst  the  rest  I  took, 
Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 
Should  dart  then-  kindlmg  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 

Nor  quality  nor  reputation 
Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell ; 
Dear  five-years-old  befriends  my  passion. 
And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silkworms'  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear, — 
Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads 
In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair, — 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame  ; 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 

She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then,  too,  alas  !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends. 
She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends  : 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 
'Tis  so  ordained  (would  fate  but  mend  it !) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love 
WMien  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 


MERRY  ANDREW. 
Sly  Merry  Andrew,  the  last  Southwark  fair, 
(At  Bartholomew  he  did  not  much  appear. 
So  peevish  was  the  edict  of  the  Mayor) — 
At  Southwark,  therefore,  as  his  tricks  he  showed, 
To  please  our  masters  and  his  friends  the  crowd, 
A  huge  neat's  tongue  he  in  his  right  hand  held, 
His  left  was  with  a  good  black-pudding  filled. 
With  a  grave  look,  in  this  odd  equipage, 
The  clownish  mimic  traverses  the  stage. 
"  Why,  how  now,  Andrew  !  "  cries  his  brother  droll, 
"To-day's  conceit  methinks  is  something  dull. 
Come  on.  Sir,  to  our  worthy  friends  explain 
What  does  your  emblematic  Worship  mean  ?  " 
Quoth  Andrew,  "  Honest  English  let  us  speak  ; 
Your  cmblc— (what  d'ye  calfit?)  is  Ilcatlien  Greek. 
To  tongue  or  pudding  thou  hast  no  pretence  ; 
Learning  thy  talent  is,  but  mine  is  sense. 
That  busy  fool  I  was  which  thou  art  now  ; 
Desirous  t(J  correct,  not  knowing  how, — 


154  SAMUEL   WESLEY  [SENR.) 


With  very  good  design,  but  little  wit, 

Blaming  or  praising  things  as  T  tlrought  fit  : 

I  for  this  conduct  had  what  I  deserved, 

And,  dealing  honestly,  was  almost  starved. 

But,  thanks  to  my  indulgent  stars,  I  eat. 

Since  I  have  found  the  secret  to  be  great." 

"O  dearest  Andrew,"  says  the  humble  droll, 

"  Henceforth  may  I  obey,  and  thou  control  ; 

Provided  thou  impart  thy  useful  skill." — 

"Bow  then,"  says  Andrew,   "and  for  once  I  will. — 

Be  of  your  patron's  mind,  whate'er  he  says  ; 

Sleep  very  much  ;  think  little,  and  talk  less  : 

Mind  neither  good  nor  bad,  nor  right  nor  wrong, 

But  eat  your  pudding,  slave,  and  hold  your  tongue." 

A  reverend  prelate  stopped  his  coach-and-six 
To  laugh  a  little  at  our  Andrew's  tricks  : 
But,  when  he  heard  him  give  this  golden  rule, 
"Drive  on"  (he  cried)  "this  fellow  is  no  fool." 


SAMUEL  WESLEY  (SENR.) 

[The  Rev.  Samuel  Wesley  (or  Westley)  was  born  towards  1666,  and  died  in 
1735.  He  caroe  of  a  dissenting  family,  but  entered  the  Established  Church  in 
his  youth,  and  was  appointed  to  the  living  of  Epworth,  Lincolnshire.  He  pub- 
lished Maggots,  or  Poems  on  several  Subjects,  1685  ;  The  Life  of  Christ,  a 
heroic  poem,  1693  ;  a  Latin  Commentary  on  Job  ;  and  other  works  inverse  and 
prose.  He  had  a  family  of  nineteen  children,  including  Samuel  Wesley^  Jun,, 
(see  p.  198),  and  the  celebrated  John  WesleyJ. 

A  PINDARIC  ON  TJIE  GRUNTING  OF  A  HOG. 

Freeborn  Pindaric  never  does  refuse 
Either  a  lofty  or  a  humble  muse  : — 
Now  in  proud  Sophoclean  buskins  sings 
Of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Mighty  numbers,  mighty  things  ; 
Now  out  of  sight  she  flies, 
Rowing  with  gaudy  wings 
Across  the  stormy  skies  ; 
Tlren  down  again 
Herself  she  flings, 
Without  uneasiness  or  pain, 
To  lice  and  dogs. 
To  cows  and  hogs, 
And  follows  their  melodious  grunting  o'er  the  plain. 

Harmonious  hog,  draw  near  ! 
No  bloody  butcher's  here, — 
Thou  need'st  not  fear. 
Harmonious  hog,  draw  near,  and  from  thy  beauteous  snout 
(Wliilst  we  attend  with  ear. 
Like  thir.e,  pricked  up  devout, 


SAMUEL   WESLEY  {SEN R.)  155 

To  taste  thy  sugary  voice,  which  here  and  there. 
With  wanton  curls,  vibrates  around  the  circling  air), 

Harmonious  hog  !  warble  some  anthem  out ! 
As  sweet  as  those  which  quavering  Monks,  in  days  of  yore, 
With  us  did  roar, 
When  they  (alas 
That  the  hard-hearted  abbot  such  a  coil  should  keep. 
And  cheat  'em  of  their  first,  their  sweetest  sleep  !) 
When  they  were  ferreted  up  to  midnight  mass  : 
Why  should  not  other  pigs  on  organs  play, 
As  well  as  they? 

Dear  hog  !  thou  king  of  meat ! 

So  near  thy  lord,  mankind,  % 

The  nicest  taste  can  scarce  a  difference  find  ! 
No  more  may  I  thy  glorious  gammons  eat — 

No  more 
Partake  of  the  free  farmer's  Christmas  store. 
Black  puddings  which  with  fat  would  make  your  mouth  run  o'er, — 
If  I  (though  I  should  ne'er  so  long  the  sentence  stay. 
And  in  my  large  ears'  scale  the  thing  ne'er  so  discreetly  weigh), 
If  I  can  find  a  difference  in  the  notes 

Belched  from  the  applauded  throats 
Of  rotten  play-house  songsters  all-divine, — 
If  any  difference  I  can  find  between  their  notes  and  thine. 
A  noise  they  keep,  with  tune  and  out  of  tune. 
And  round  and  flat, 
High,  low,  and  this  and  that. 
That  Algebra  or  thou  or  I  might  understand  as  soon. 

Like  the  confounding  lute's  innumerable  strings 
One  of  them  sings. 
Thy  easier  music's  ten  times  more  divine  ; 
More  like  the  one-stnnged.  deep,  majestic  trump-marine. 
Prythee  strike  up,  and  cheer  this  drooping  heart  of  mine  ! — 

Not  the  sweet  harp  that's  claimed  by  Jews, 
Nor  that  which  to  the  far  more  ancient  Welsh  belongs, 

Nor  that  which  the  wild  Irish  use, 
Frighting  even  their  own  wolves  with  loud  hubbubbaboos, 
Nor  Indian  dance,  with  Indian  songs, 

Nor  yet 
(Which  how  should  I  so  long  forget  ?) 
The  crown  of  all  the  rest. 
The  very  cream  o'  the  jest, 
Amphion's  noble  lyre — the  tongs  ; 
Nor,  though  poetic  Jordan  bite  his  thumbs 
At  the  bold  world,  my  Lord  Mayor's  flutes  and  kettledrums  ; 

Not  all  this  instnimental  dare 
With  thy  soft,  ravishing,  jocal  music  ever  to  compare  I 


156  VANBRUGH. 


SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGH. 
[Born  in  1666,  died  in  1726.     Dramatist  and  architect]. 

FABLE,  RELATED  BY  A  BEAU  TO  ^ESOP. 

A  Band,  a  Bob-wig,  and  a  Feather, 
Attacked  a  lady's  heart  together. 
The  Band,  in  a  most  learned  plea 
Made  up  of  deep  philosophy, 
Told  her,  if  she  would  please  to  wed 
A  reverend  beard,  and  take  instead 

Of  vigorous  youth, 

Old  solemn  truth, 
With  books  and  morals,  into  bed, 
How  happy  she  would  be. 

The  Bob  he  talked  of  management, 
What  wondrous  blessings  Heaven  sent 
On  care,  and  pains,  and  industry  : 
And  truly  he  must  be  sq  free 
To  own  he  thought  your  airy  beaux, 
With  powdered  wigs  and  dancing-shoes, 
Were  good  for  nothing  (mend  his  soul  !) 
But  prate,  and  talk,  and  play  the  fool. 

He  said  'twas  wealth  gave  joy  and  mirth, 

And  that  to  be  the  dearest  wife 

Of  one  who  laboured  all  his  life 

To  make  a  mine  of  gold  his  own, 

And  not  spend  sixpence  when  he'd  done, 

Was  heaven  upon  earth. 

When  these  two  blades  had  done,  d'ye  see, 
The  Feather  (as  it  might  be  me) 
Steps  out,  sir,  from  behind  the  screen. 
With  such  an  air  and  such  a  mien — 
"Look  you,  old  gentleman," — in  short, 
He  quickly  spoiled  the  statesman's  sport. 

It  proved  such  sunshine  weather 
That,  you  must  know,  at  the  first  beck 
The  lady  leaped  about  his  neck, 

And  off  they  went  together  ! 


SWIFT.  157 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 
(Born  in  Dublin,  30  November  1667  ;  died  there,  19  October  1745]. 
DEAN  SWIFT'S  CURATE.l 
I  MARCHED  tlij-ee  miles  through  scorching  sand, 
"With  zeal  in  heart,  and  notes  in  hand  : 
I  rode  four  more  to  great  St.  Mary, 
Using  four  legs  when  two  were  weary, 
To  three  fair  virgins  1  did  tie  men 
In  the  close  bands  of  pleasing  Hymen  : 
I  dipped  two  babes  in  holy  water, 
And  purified  their  mothers  after. 
Within  an  hour  and  eke  an  half, 
I  preached  three  congregations  deaf, 
Which,  thundering  out  with  lungs  long-winded, 
I  chopped  so  fast  that  few  there  minded. 
My  emblem,  the  laborious  sun, 
Saw  all  these  mighty  labours  done 
Before  one  race  of  his  was  run. 
All  this  performed  by  Robert  He'wit  ; 
What  mortal  else  could  e'er  go  through  it  ? 


A  TRUE  AND  FAITHFUL  INVENTORY 

OF  THE  GOODS  BELONGING  TO  DR,  SWIFT,  VICAR  OF  LARACOR,  UPON  LENDING 
HIS  HOUSE  TO  THE  BISHOP  OF  MEATH  TILL  HIS  PALACE  WAS  REBUILT. 

An  oaken  broken  elbow-chair  ; 

A  caudle-cup  without  an  ear  ; 

A  battered  shattered  ash  bedstead  ; 

A  box  of  deal,  without  a  lid  ; 

A  pair  of  tongs,  but  out  of  joint ; 

A  back-sword  poker,  without  point ; 

A  pot  that's  cracked  aci-oss,  around 

With  an  old  knotted  garter  bound  ; 

An  iron  lock,  without  a  key  ; 

A  wig,  with  hanging  quite  gro\\-n  grey  ; 

A  curtain,  worn  to  half  a  stripe  ; 

A  pair  of  bellows,  without  pipe  ; 

A  dish,  which  might  good  meat  afford  once ; 

An  Ovid,  and  an  old  Concordance  ; 

A  bottle-bottom,  wooden  platter, — 

One  is  for  meal,  and  one  for  water. 

There  likewise  is  a  copper  skillet, 

Which  runs  as  fast  out  as  you  fill  it ; 

A  candlestick,  snuff-dish,  and  save-all : 

And  thus  his  household  goods  you  have  all. 

These  to  your  lordship,  as  a  friend, 

Till  you  have  built,  I  freely  lend  : 

They'll  serve  your  lordship  for  a  shift ; 

Why  not,  as  well  as  Doctor  Swift? 


158  SWIFT. 


ON  THE 

LITTLE  HOUSE  BY  THE  CHURCHYARD  OF  CASTLENOCK. 

Whoever  pleasetli  to  enquire 

Why  yonder  steeple  wants  a  spire, 

Tlie  grey  old  fellow,  poet  Joe, 

The  philosophic  cause  will  show. 

Once  on  a  time,  a  western  blast 

At  least  twelve  inches  overcast, 

Reckoning  roof,  weathercock,  and  all ; 

Which  came  wilh  a  prodigious  fall, 
And,  tumbling  topsy-turvy  round, 
Lit  with  its  bottom  on  the  ground. 
For  by  the  laws  of  gravitation 
It  fell  into  its  proper  station. 

This  is  the  little  strutting  pile 
You  see  just  by  the  churchyard  stile. 
The  walls  in  tumbling  gave  a  knock. 
And  thus  the  steeple  gave  a  shock: 
From  whence  the  neighbouring  farmer  calls 
The  steeple.  Knock  ;  the  Vicar,  Walls. 

The  vicar  once  a  week  creeps  in. 
Sits  with  his  knees  up  to  his  chin  ; 
Here  cons  his  notes,  and  takes  a  whet. 
Till  the  small  ragged  flock  is  met. 

A  traveller  who  by  did  pass 
Observed  the  roof  behind  the  grass. 
On  tiptoe  stood,  and  reared  his  snout, 
And  saw  the  parson  creeping  out  ; 
Was  much  surprised  to  see  a  crow 
Venture  to  build  his  nest  so  low. 
A  schoolboy  ran  unto't,  and  thought 
The  crib  was  down,  the  blackbird  caught. 
A  thn-d,  who  lost  his  way  by  night, 
Was  forced  for  safety  to  alight, 
And,  stepping  o'er  the  fabric-roof. 
His  horse  had  like  to  spoil  his  hoof 
Warburton  took  it  in  his  noddle 
This  building  was  designed  a  model 
Or  of  a  pigeon-house,  or  oven. 
To  bake  one  loaf,  and  keep  one  dove  in. 
Then  Mrs.  Johnson  ^  gave  her  verdict, 
And  every  one  was  pleased  that  heard  it  : 
"All  that  you  make  this  stir  about 
Is  but  a  still  which  wants  a  spout." 
1  he  Rev.  Dr.  Raymond  guessed 
More  probably  than  all  the  rest ; 
He  said,  but  that  it  Wanted  room, 

1  .Stella. 


SWIFT.  159 


It  might  have  been  a  pygmy's  tomb. 

The  doctor's  family  came  by, 

And  little  miss  began  to  cry, 

"Give  me  that  house  in  my  own  hand  !" 

Then  madam  bade  the  chariot  stand, 

Called  to  the  clerk,  in  manner  mild  ; 

"  Pray  reach  that  thing  here  to  the  child, - 

That  thing,  I  mean,  among  the  kale  ; 

And  here's  to  buy  a  pot  of  ale." 

The  clerk  said  to  her,  in  a  heat  ; 

"  What,  sell  my  master's  country-seat, 

Where  he  comes  every  week  from  town  ? 

He  would  not  sell  it  for  a  crown." 

"  Poh,  fellow,  keep  not  such  a  pother, 

In  half  an  hour  thou'lt  make  another." 

Says  Nancy  ;   "  I  can  make  for  miss 

A  finer  house  ten  tijnes  than  this  ; 

The  Dean  will  give  me  willow-sticks, 

And  Joe  my  apronful  of  bricks." 


BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 
'imitated  from  the  eighth  book  of  ovip. 

In  ancient  times,  as  story  tells, 
The  saints  would  often  leave  their  cells, 
And  stroll  about,  but  hide  their  quality, 
To  try  good  people's  hospitality. 

It  happened  on  a  winter-night, 
As  authors  of  the  legend  write. 
Two  brother  hermits,  saints  by  trade. 
Taking  their  tour  in  masquerade, 
Disguised  in  tattered  habits,  went 
To  a  small  village  down  in  Kent  ; 
Where,  in  the  strollers'  canting  strain. 
They  begged  from  door  to  door  in  vain. 
Tried  every  tone  might  pity  win  ; 
But  not  a  soul  would  let  them  in. 

Our  wandering  saints  in  woful  state, 
Treated  at  this  ungodly  rate. 
Having  through  all  the  village  passed, 
To  a  small  cottage  came  at  last ; 
W^here  dwelt  a  good  old  honest  ye'man, 
Called  in  the  neighbourhood  Philemon  ; 
Who  kindly  did  these  saints  invite 
In  his  poor  hut  to  pass  the  night. 
And  then  the  hospitable  sire 
Bid  goody  Paucis  mend  the  fire  ; 
While  he  from  out  the  chimney  took 
A  flitch  of  bacon  off  the  hook, 


i6o  SWIFT. 

And  freely  from  the  fattest  side 
Cut  out  large  slices  to  be  fried  ; 
Then  stepped  aside  to  fetch  'em  drink, 
Filled  a  large  j  ug  up  to  the  brink, 
And  saw  it  fairly  twice  go  round  ; 
Yet  (what  is  wonderful  !)  they  found 
'Twas  still  replenished  to  the  top, 
As  if  they  liad  not  touched  a  drop. 
The  good  old  couple  were  amazed. 
And  often  on  each  other  gazed  ; 
For  both  were  frightened  to  the  heart, 
And  just  began  to  cry  "  What  art  ?  •"' 
Then  softly  turned  aside  to  view 
Whether  the  lights  were  burning  blue. 
The  gentle  pilgrims,  soon  aware  on"t, 
Told  them  their  calling  and  their  errant. 
''*'  Good  folks,  you  need  not  be  afraid, 
We  are  but  saints,"  the  hermits  said. 
"  No  hurt  shall  come  to  you  or  youi^s  : 
But,  for  that  pack  of  churlish  boors, 
Not  fit  to  live  on  Christian  ground. 
They  and  their  houses  shall  be  drowned  ; 
Whilst  you  shall  see  your  cottage  rise. 
And  grow  a  church  before  your  eyes." 

They  scarce  had  spoke  when  fair  and  soft 
The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft  ; 
Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter  ; 
The  heavy  wall  climbed  slowly  after. 
The  chimne^  widened,  and  grew  higher. 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 
The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist. 
And  there  stood  fastened  to  a  joist. 
But  with  the  upside  down,  to  show 
Its  inclination  for  below. 
In  vain  ;  for  a  superior  force 
Applied  at  bottom  stops  its  course  : 
Doomed  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 
'Tis  now  no  kettle  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack,  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast, 
A  sudden  alteration  feels. 
Increased  by  new  intestine  wheels  ; 
And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more, 
The  number  made  the  motion  slower. 
The  flier,  though't  had  leaden  feet. 
Turned  round  so  quick  you  scarce  could  see't ; 
But,  slackened  by  some  secret  power. 
Now  hardly  moves  an  inch  an  hour. 
The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied, 
Had  ne\»er  left  each  other's  side  : 


SWIFT.  i6j 


The  chimney  to  a  steeple  grown, 
The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone, 
But,  up  against  the  steeple  reared, 
Became  a  clock,  and  still  adhered  ; 
And  still  its  love  to  household-cares, 
By  a  shrill  voice  at  noon,  declares, 
Warning  the  cook-maid  not  to  burn 
That  roast-meat  which  it  cannot  tiirn. 

The  gi'oaning  chair  began  to  crawl, 
Like  a  huge  snail,  along  the  wall ; 
There  stuck  aloft  in  public  view. 
And,  with  small  change,  a  pulpit  grew. 
The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  show, 
To  a  less  noble  substance  changed. 
Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  ranged. 
The  ballads  pasted  on  the  wall. 
Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  Robin  Hood, 
The  little  children  in  the  wood. 
Now  seemed  to  look  abvmdance  better. 
Improved  in  picture,  size,  and  letter  ; 
And,  high  in  order  placed,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. ^ 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode, 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load. 
Such  as  our  ancestors  did  use, 
Was  metamorphosed  into  pews  ; 
Which  still  their  ancient  nature  keep, 
By  lodging  folks  disposed  to  sleep. 

The  cottage,  by  such  feats  as  these, 
Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees, 
The  hermits  then  desired  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most. 
Philemon,  having  paused  a  while. 
Returned  them  thanks  in  homely  style  ; 
Then  said  ;   "  My  house  is  grown  so  fme, 
Methinks  I  still  would  call  it  mine  ; 
I'm  old,  and  fain  would  live  at  ease  ; 
Make  me  the  parson,  if  you  please.'' 

He  spoke  ;  and  presently  he  feels 
His  grazier's  coat  fall  down  his  heels  : 
He  sees,  yet  hardly  can  believe, 
About  each  arm  a  pudding-sleeve  ; 
His  waistcoat  to  a  cassoclc  grew. 
And  both  assumed  a  sable  hue  ; 
But,  being  old,  continued  just 


1  Of  the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel,  which  in  country-churches  were  sometimes 
distinguished  by  the  ensigns  appropriated  to  them  by  Jacob  on  his  deathbed. 

L 


r62  SWIFT. 

As  threadbare,  and  as  full  of  dust. 
His  ta.Ik  was  now  of  tithes  and  dues  : 
He  smoked  his  pipe,  and  read  the  news  ; 
Knew  how  to  preach  old  sermons  next, 
Vamped-in  the  preface  and  the  text ; 
At  christ'nings  well  could  act  his  part. 
And  had  the  service  all  by  heart ; 
Wishf  ^  ^'--VM  ii;";;b*:  bive  chi:;!rer  fast, 
Ard  t;ii,;Ui:;ht  ■•'jb.owl  .-jw  Iv..'  .,  _  !  ■...•:  , 

Against  dissenters  would  repine. 
And  stood  up  firm  for  right  divine  ; 
Found  his  head  filled  with  many  a  system  : 
But  classic  authors — he  ne'er  missed  'em. 

Thus  having  furbished  up  a  parson, 
Dame  Baucis  next  they  played  their  farce  oiiy 
Instead  of  home-spun  coifs,  were  seen 
Good  pinners  edged  with  colberteen  ; 
Her  petticoat,  transformed  apace, 
Became  black  satin  flounced  with  lace. 
Plain  Goody  would  no  longer  down  ; 
'Twas  Aladam,  in  her  grogram  gown. 
Philemon  was  in  great  surprise, 
And  hardly  could  believe  his  eyes, 
Amazed  to  see  her  look  so  prim  ; 
And  she  admired  as  much  at  him. 

Thus  happy  in  their  change  of  life 
"Were  several  years  this  man  and  wife  ;■ 
When  on  a  day,  which  proved  their  last, 
Discoursing  o'er  old  stories  past, 
They  went  by  chance,  amidst  their  talk, 
To  the  church -yard  to  take  a  walk  ; 
"When  Baucis  hastily  cried  out, 
"  My  dear,  I  see  your  forehead  sprout  !" 
"Sprout  !  "  quoth  the  man  ;  "  what's  this  you  tell  ns? 
I  hope  you  don't  believe  me  jealous. 
But  yet,  methinks,  I  feel  it  true  ; 

And  really  yours  is  budding  too ■ 

Nay, — now  I  cannot  stir  my  foot  j 
It  feels  as  if  'twere  taking  root." 

Description  would  but  tire  my  Muse  ; 
In  short,  they  both  were  turned  to  yews. 

Old  Goodman  Dobson  of  the  green 
Remembers  he  the  trees  has  seen. 
He'll  ta:lk  of  them  from  noon  till  night, 
And  goes  with  folks  to  show  the  sight. 
On  Sundays,  after  evening-prayer, 
He  gathers  all  the  parish  lliere  ; 
Points  out  the  place  of  either  yew  ; 
"  Here  Baucis,  there  Philemon  grew  : 
•  Till  once  a  .parson  of  our  town. 


SWIFT.  162 

To  mend  his  barn,  cut  Baucis  down  ; 
At  which  'tis,  hard  to  be  believed 
How  much  the  other  tree  was  grieved, — 
Grew  scrubby,  died  a-top,  was  stunted  j 
So  the  next  parson  stubbed  and  burnt  it." 


A  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  MORNING. 

Now  hardly  here  and  there  an  hackney-coach 

Appearing  showed  the  ruddy  morn's  approach. 

Now  Betty  from  her  master's  bed  had  flown, 

And  softly  stole  to  discompose  her  own: 

The  slipshod  prentice  from  his  master's  door 

Had  pared  the  dirt,  and  sprinkled  round  the  floor. 

Now  Moll  had  whirled  her  mop  with  dextrous  airs, 

Prepared  to  scrub  the  entry  and  the  stairs. 

The  youth  ^  with  broomy  stumps  began  to  trace 

The  kennel's  edge,  where  wheels  had  worn  the  place. 

The  small-coal  man  was  heard  with  cadence  deep, 

Till  drowned  in  shriller  notes  of  chimney-sweep: 

Duns  at  his  Lordship's  gate  began  to  meet ; 

And  brick-dust  Moll  had  screamed  through  half  the  street. 

The  turnkey  now  his  flock  returning  sees, 

Duly  let  out  a-nights  to  steal  for  fees  : 

The  watchful  bailiffs  take  their  silent  stands  ; 

And  schoolboys  lag  with  satchels  in  their  hands. 


STELLA'S  BIRTHDAY,  1718. 

Stella  this  day  is  thirty-four 
(We  shan't  dispute  a  year  or  more). 
However,  Stella,  be  not  troubled  ; 
Although  thy  size  and  years  are  doubled 
Since  first  I  saw  thee  at  sixteen, 
The  brightest  virgin  on  the  green, 
So  little  is  thy  form  declined  ; 
Made  np  so  largely  in  thy  mind. 

Oh  would  it  please  the  gods  to  split 
Thy  beauty,  size,  and  years,  and  wit  i 
No  age  could  furnish  out  a  pair 
Of  nymphs  so  graceful,  wise,  and  fair. 
With  half  the  lustre  of  your  eyes, 
With  half  your  wit,  your  years,  and  size. 
And  then,  before  it  grew  too  late, 
How  should  I  beg  of  gentle  fate 
(That  either  nymph  might  have  her  swain) 
To  split  my  worship  too  in  twain  ! 

.  >  1  To  find  old  nails. 


1 64  SWIFT. 


MARY  THE  COOK-MAID'S  LETTER  TO  DR.  SHERIDAN 

Well,  if  ever  I  saw  such  another  man  since  my  mother  bound  my 

head  ! 
You  a  gentleman  !  marry  come  up,  I  wonder  where  you  were  bred  ! 
I  am  sure  such  words  do  not  become  a  man  of  your  cloth  ; 
I  would  not  give  such  language  to  a  dog,  faith  and  troth. 
Yes,  you  called  my   master    a    knave  :  fie,    Mr.  Sheridan  !   'tis   a 

shame 
For  a  parson,  who  should  know  better  things,  to  come  out  with  such 

a  name. 
Knave  in  your  teeth,  Mr.  Sheridan  !  'tis  both  a  shame  and  a  sin  ; 
And  the  Dean  my  master  is  an  honester  man  than  you  and  all 

your  kin. 
He  has  more  goodness  in  his  little  finger  than  you  have  in  your 

whole  body : 
My  master  is  a  personable  man,  and  not  a  spindle-shanked  hoddy- 

doddy. 
And  now,  whereby  I  find  you  would  fain  make  an  excuse, 
Because  my  master  one  day,  in  anger,  called  you  goose  ; 
Which  and  I  am  sure  I  have  been  his  servant  four  years  since  Oc- 
tober, 
And  he  never  called  me  worse  than  s-ueethcart,  drunk  or  sober. 
Not  that  I  know  his  Reverence  was  ever  concerned,  to  my  know- 
ledge. 
Though  you  and  your  come-rogues  keep  him  out  so  late  in  your 

wicked  college. 
You  say  you  will  eat  grass  on  his  grave  :  A  Christian  eat  grass  ! 
Whereby  you  now  confess  yourself  to  be  a  goose  or  an  ass. 
But  that's  as  much  as  to  say  that  my  master  should  die  before  ye  ; 
Well,  well,  that's  as  God  pleases  ;  and  I  don't  believe  that's  a  true 

story. 
And  so  say  I  told  you  so,  and  you  may  go  tell  my  master ;  what 

care  I ? 
And  I  don't  care  who  knows  it ;  'tis  all  one  to  Mary. 
Every  body  knows  that  I  love  to  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil. 
I  am  but  a  poor  servant  ;  but  I  think  gentle-folks  should  be  civil. 
Besides,  you  found  fault  with  our  victuals  one  day  that  you  was 

here  ; 
I  remember  it  was  on  a  Tuesday,  of  all  days  in  the  year. 
And  Saunders  the  man  says  you  are  always  jesting  and  mocking: 
"  Mary,"  said  he  one  day,  as  I  was  mending  my  master's  stocking, 
"  My  master  is  so  fond  of  that  minister  that  keeps  the  school  : 
I  thought  my  master  a  wise  man,  but  that  man  makes  him  a  fool." 
"  Saunders,"  said  I,  "I  would  rather  than  a  quart  of  ale 
He  would  come  into  our  kitchen,  and  I  would  pin  a  dishclout  to 

his  tail." 
And  now  I  must  go,  and  get  Saunders  to  direct  this  letter ; 
For  I  write  but  a  sad  scrawl ;  but  my  sister  Marget  she  writes 

better. 


SWIFT.  165 


Well,  but  I  must  run  and  make  the  bed,  before  my  master  comes 

from  prayers  ; 
And  see  now,  it  strikes  ten,  and  I  liear  him  coming  up  stairs. 
Whereof  I  could  say  more  to  your  verses,  if  I  could  write  written 

hand  : 
And  so  I  remain,  in  a  civil  way,  your  servant  to  command, 

Mary. 


DR.  SWIFT  TO  MR.  POPE,  WHILE  HE  WAS  WRITING 
THE  DUNCIAD. 

Pope  has  the  talent  well  to  speak, 

But  not  to  reach  the  ear  ; 
His  loudest  voice  is  low  and  weak, 

The  Dean  too  deaf  to  hear. 

Awhile  they  on  each  other  look, 

Then  different  studies  choose. 
The  Dean  sits  plodding  on  a  book ; 

Pope  walks,  and  courts  the  muse. 

^         Now  backs  of  letters,  though  designed 
For  those  who  more  will  need  'em. 
Are  filled  with  hints,  and  interlined, — 
Himself  can  hardly  read  'em. 

Each  atom,  by  some  other  struck. 

All  turns  and  motions  tries  : 
Till,  in  a  lump  together  stuck, 

Behold  a  poem  rise  ! 

Yet  to  the  Dean  his  share  allot  j 

He  claims  it  by  a  canon  ; 
"That  without  which  a  thing  is  not 

Is  causa  sine  qua  non." 

Thus,  Pope,  in  vain  you  boast  your  wit ; 

For,  had  our  deaf  divine 
Been  for  your  conversation  fit, 

You  had  not  writ  a  line. 

Of  prelate  thus  for  preaching  famed 

The  sexton  reasoned  well ; 
And  justly  half  the  merit  claimed, 

Because  he  rang  the  bell. 


i66  SWIFT. 

TO  DR.  DELANY,  ON  THE  LIBELS  WRITTEN  AGAINST  HIM. 

As  some  raw  youth  in  country  bred, 

To  arms  by  thirst  of  honour  led, 

When  at  a  skirmish  first  he  hears 

The  bullets  whistling  round  his  ears, 

Will  duck  his  head  aside,  will  start, 

And  feel  a  trembling  at  his  heart ; 

Till  scaping  oft  without  a  wound 

Lessens  the  terror  of  the  sound ; 

riy  bullets  now  as  thick  as  hops. 

He  runs  into  a  cannon's  chops : 

An  author  thus  who  pants  for  fame 

Begins  the  world  with  fear  and  shame. 

When  first  in  print,  you  see  him  dread 

Each  pop-gun  levelled  at  his  head : 

The  lead  yon  critic's  quill  contains 

Is  destined  to  beat  out  his  brains. 

As  if  he  heard  loud  thunders  roll, 

Cries  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! 

Concluding  that  another  shot 

Will  strike  him  dead  upon  the  spot. 

But,  when  with  squibbing,  flashing,  popping, 

He  cannot  see  one  creature  dropping  ; 

That,  missing  fire  or  missing  aim, 

His  life  is  safe  (I  mean  his  fame); 

The  danger  past,  takes  heart  of  grace, 

And  looks  a  critic  in  the  face. 

Though  splendour  gives  the  fairest  mark 
To  poisoned  arrows  from  the  dark, 
Yet,  in  yourself  when  smooth  and  round,^ 
They  glance  aside  without  a  wound. 

'Tis  said  the  gods  tried  all  their  art 
How  Pain  they  might  from  Pleasure  part ; 
But  little  could  their  strength  avail, — 
Both  still  are  fastened  by  the  tail. 
Thus  Fame  and  Censure  with  a  tether 
By  fate  are  always  linked  together. 

Why  will  you  aim  to  be  preferred 
In  wit  before  the  common  herd. 
And  yet  grow  mortified  and  vexed 
To  pay  the  penalty  annexed  ? 

'Tis  eminence  makes  envy  rise. 
As  fairest  fruits  attract  the  flies. 
Should  stupid  libels  grieve  your  mind. 
You  soon  a  remedy  may  find ; 

1  In  seipso  totus  teres  atque  rotundas. 


SWIFT.  167 

Lie  down  obscure  like  other  folks 
Below  the  lash  of  snarlers'  jokes. 
Their  faction  is  five-hundred  odds  ; 
For  every  coxcomb  lends  them  rods, 
And  sneers  as  learnedly  as  they, 
GLike  females  o'er  their  morning  tea. 

You  say,  the  Muse  will  not  contain, 
And  write  you  must,  or  break  a  vein. 
Then,  if  you  find  the  terms  too  hard, 
No  longer  my  advice  regard : 
But  raise  your  fancy  on  the  wing. 
The  Irish  senate's  praises  sing ; 
How  jealous  of  the  nation's  freedom, 
And  for  corruptions,  how  they  weed  'em 5 
How  each  the  public  good  pursues, 
How  far  their  hearts  from  private  views,; 
Make  all  true  patriots  up  to  shoeboys 
Huzza  their  brethren  at  the  Blue-boys.'- 
Thus  grown  a  member  of  the  club, 
No  longer  dread  the  rage  of  Grab. 

How  oft  am  I  forrhyme  to  seek! 
To  dress  a  thought,  I  toil  a  week  : 
And  then  how  thankful  to  the  town 
If  all  my  pains  will  earn  a  crown  ! 
Whilst  every  critic  can  devour 
"My  work  and  me  in  half  an  hour. 
Would  men  of  genius  cease  to  write, 
The  rogues  must  die  for  want  and  spite; 
Must  die  for  want  of  food  and  raiment, 
If  scandal  did  not  find  them  payment 
How  cheerfully  the  hawkers  cry 
'"  A  satire,"  and  the  gentry  buy! 
While  my  hard-laboured  poem  pines 
Unsold  upon  the  printer's  lines. 

A  genius  in  the  reverend  gown 
TMust  ever  keep  its  owner  down; 
'Tis  an  unnatural  conjunction. 
And  spoils  the  credit  of  the  function. 
Round  all  your  brethren  cast  your  eyes-; 
Point  out  the  surest  men  to  rise. 
That  club  of  candidates  in  black, 
Tlie  least  deserving  of  the  pack, 
Aspiring,  factious,  fierce,  and  loud, 
With  grace  and  learning  unendowed. 
Can  turn  their  hands  to  every  job. 
The  fittest  tools  to  work  for  Bob  ;* 

1  The  Irish  parliament  sat  at  the  Blue-boys'  ilospilal  while  the  new  parlia- 
aneiit-house  was  buildin£.  ^Sij-  Robert  Walp^lc 


1 68  SWIFT. 


Will  sooner  coin  a  thousand  lies 
Than  suffer  men  of  parts  to  rise. 
They  crowd  al)out  preferment's  gate, 
And  press  you  down  with  all  their  weight. 
For,  as  of  old  mathematicians 
Were  by  the  vulgar  thought  magicians, 
So  academic  dull  ale-drinkers 
Pronounce  all  men  Qi  ^\i  freethinkers. 

Wit,  as  the  chief  of  virtue's  friends. 
Disdains  to  serve  ignoble  ends. 
Observe  what  loads  of  stupid  rhymes 
Oppress  us  in  corrupted  times. 
What  pamphlets  in  a  court's  defence 
Show  reason,  grammar,  truth,  or  sense  ? 
For,  though  the  Muse  delights  in  fiction, 
She  ne'er  inspires  against  conviction. 
Then  keep  your  virtue  still  unmixed. 
And  let  not  faction  come  betwixt : 
By  party-steps  no  grandeur  climb  at, 
Though  it  would  make  you  England's  primate. 
First  learn  the  science  to  be  dull, — 
You  then  may  soon  your  conscience  lull ; 
If  not,  however  seated  high, 
Your  genius  in  your  face  will  fly. 

When  Jove  was  from  his  teeming  head 
Of  wit's  fair  goddess  brought  to  bed, 
There  followed  at  his  lying-in 
For  afterbirth  a  Sooterkin; 
Which,  as  the  nurse  pursued  to  kill, 
Attained  by  flight  the  Muses'  hill ; 
There  in  the  soil  began  to  root. 
And  littered  at  Parnassus'  foot. 
From  hence  the  critic  vermin  sprung. 
With  harpy  claws  and  poisonous  tongue, 
Who  fatten  on  poetic  scraps. 
Too  cunning  to  be  caught  in  traps. 
Dame  Nature,  as  the  learned  show, 
Provides  each  animal  its  foe : 
Hounds  hunt  the  hare,  the  wily  fox 
Devours  your  geese,  the  wolf  your  flocks : 
Thus  Envy  pleads  a  natural  claim 
To  persecute  the  Muses'  fame; 
On  poets  in  all  times  abusive, 
From  Homer  down  to  Pope  inclusive. 

Yet  what  avails  it  to  complain? 
You  try  to  take  revenge  in  vain. 
A  rat  your  utmost  rage  defies. 
That  safe  behind  the  wainscot  lies. 


SWIFT.  169 


Say,  did  you  ever  know  by  sight 
In  cheese  an  individual  mite? 
Show  me  the  same  numeric  flea 
That  bit  your  neck  but  yesterday: 
You  then  may  boldly  go  in  quest 
To  find  the  Grub-street  poets'  nest;_ 
What  spunging-house  in  dread  of  jail 
Receives  them  while  they  wait  for  bail; 
What  alley  they  are  nestled  in,     • 
To  flourish  o'er  a  cup  of  gin  : 
Find  the  last  garret  where  they  lay, 
Or  cellar  where  they  starve  to-day. 
Suppose  you  had  them  all  trepanned, 
With  each  a  libel  in  his  hand, 
What  punishment  would  you  inflict  ? 
Or  call  'em  rogues,  or  get  'em  kicked? 
These  they  have  often  tried  before ; 
You  but  oblige  'em  so  much  more : 
Themselves  would  be  the  first  to  tell, 
To  make  their  trash  the  better  sell. 

You  have  been  libelled Let  us  know 

What  fool  officious  told  you  so. 

Will  you  regard  the  hawker's  cries, 

Who  in  his  titles  always  lies? 

Whate'er  the  noisy  scoundrel  says, 

It  might  be  something  in  your  praise : 

And  praise  bestowed  on  Grub-street  rhymes 

Would  vex  one  more  a  thousand  times. 

Till  critics  blame,  and  judges  praise. 

The  poet  cannot  claim  his  bays. 

On  me  when  dunces  are  satiric, 

I  take  it  for  a  panegyric. 

Hated  by  fools,  and  fools  to  hate, — 

Be  that  my  motto,  and  my  fate. 


WHITSHEDS  MOTTO  ON  HIS  COACH.i 
Libertas  et  natale  solum. — Liberty  and  my  native  country. 

"LiBERTAS  et  natale  solum  : 
Fine  words !   I  wonder  where  you  stole  'em. 
Could  nothing  but  thy  chief  reproach 
Serve  for  a  motto  on  tliy  coach?" 

"  But  let  me  now  the  words  translate. 
Natale  solum,  my  estate  ; 

1  Whitshed  was  the  Chief  Justice  who  acted  against  Swift  in  the  affair  of  the 
letters  by  "  M.  B.  Drapier." 


170  SWIFT. 

My  dear  estate,  how  well  I  love  it ! 
My  tenants,  if  you  doubt,  M'ill  prove  it  : 
They  swear  I  am  so  kind  and  good 
I  hug  them  till  I  squeeze  their  blood. 
Libertas  bears  a  large  import : 
First,  how  to  sv/agger  in  a  court; 
And,  secondly,  to  show  my  fury 
Against  an  uncomplying  jury; 
And,  thirdly,  'tis  a  new  invention 
To  favour  Wood,  and  keep  my  pension; 
And,  fourthly,  'tis  to  play  an  odd  trick, 
Get  the  great  seal,  and  turn  out  Brod'rick; 
And,  fifthly  (you  know  whom  I  mean), 
To  humble  that  vexatious  Dean ; 
And,  sixthly,  for  my  soul,  to  barter  it, 
For  fifty  times  its  worth,  to  Carteret."-^ 

"  Now,  since  your  motto  thus  you  construe, 
I  must  confess  you've  spoken  once  true. 
Libertas  et  natale  solum : 
You  had  good  reason  when  you  stole  'em." 


DEATH  AND  DAPHNE. 

TO  AN  AGREEABLE  YOUNG  LADY,  BUT  EXTREMELY  LEAN. 

Death  went  upon  a  solemn  day 

At  Pluto's  hall  his  court  to  pay. 

The  phantom,  having  humbly  kissed 

His  grisly  monarch's  sooty  fist, 

Presented  him  the  weekly  bills 

Of  doctors,  fevers,  plagues,  and  pills. 

Pluto,  observing,  since  the  peace, 

The  burial-article  decrease, 

And  vexed  to  see  affairs  miscarry. 

Declared  in  council  Death  must  marry; 

Vowed  he  no  longer  could  support 

Old  bachelors  about  his  court : 

The  interest  of  his  realm  had  need 

That  Death  should  get  a  numerous  breed; 

Young  deathlings,  who,  by  practice  made 

Proficient  in  their  father's  trade. 

With  colonies  might  stock  around 

His  large  dominions  underground. 

A  consult  of  coquets  below 
Was  called  to  rig  him  out  a  beau. 
From  her  own  head  Megsera  takes 
A  periwig  of  twisted  snakes  ; 
Which  in  the  nicest  fashion  cui^led 

I  Lord  Carteret,  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland. 


SWIFT.  Ill 


(Like  toiipets  of  this  upper  world), 

With  flour  of  sulphur  powdered  well, 

That  graceful  on  his  shoulders  fell ; 

An  adder  of  the  sable  kind. 

In  line  direct,  hung  down  behind. 

The  owl,  the  raven,  and  the  bat, 

Clubbed  for  a  feather  to  his  hat; 

His  coat,  an  usurer's  velvet  pall, 

Bequeathed  to  Pluto,  corpse  and  all. 

But,  loth  his  person  to  expose 

Bare,  like  a  carcase  picked  by  crows, 

A  lawyer  o'er  his  hands  and  face 

Stuck  artfully  a  parchment  case. 

No  new-fluxed  rake  showed  fairer  skin, 

Nor  Phillis  after  lying  in. 

With  snuff  was  filled  his  ebon  box, 

Of  shin-bones  rotted  by  the  pox. 

Nine  spirits  of  blaspheming  fops 

With  aconite  anoint  his  chops: 

And  give  him  words  of  dreadful  sounds, 

•'^God  damn  his  blood,"  and  "blood  and  wounds." 

Thus  furnished  out,  he  sent  his  train 
To  take  a  house  in  Warwick  Lane. 
The  faculty,  his  humble  friends, 
A  complimental  message  sends: 
Their  president  in  scarlet  gown 
Harangued,  and  welcomed  him  to  to\\ai. 

But  Death  had  business  to  dispatch; 
His  mind  was  running  on  his  match. 
And,  hearing  much  of  Daphne's  fame, 
His  Majesty  of  Terrors  came. 
Fine  as  a  colonel  of  the  guards. 
To  visit  where  she  sat  at  cards. 
She,  as  he  came  into  the  room, 
Thought  him  Adonis  in  his  bloom. 
And  now  her  heart  with  pleasure  jumps; 
She  scarce  remembers  what  is  trumps ; 
For  such  a  shape  of  skin  and  bone 
Was  never  seen  except  her  own : 
Charmed  with  his  eyes,  and  chin,  and  snout, 
Her  pocket-glass  drew  slily  out ; 
And  grew  enamoured  with  her  phiz, 
As  just  the  counterpart  of  his. 
She  darted  many  a  private  glance, 
And  freely  made  the  first  advance ; 
Was  of  her  beauty  grown  so  vain 
She  doiibtcd.not  to  win  the  swain; 
Nothing,  she  thought,  could  sooner  gain  him 
Than  with  her  wit  to  enterlain  him. 


172  LANSDOWNE. 


She  asked  about  her  friends  below  ; 
This  meagre  fop,  tliat  battered  beau : 
Whetlier  some  late-departed  toasts 
Had  got  gallants  among  the  ghosts  : 
If  Chloe  were  a  sharper  still 
As  great  as  ever  at  quadrille — 
(The  ladies  there  must  needs  be  rooks, 
For  cards,  we  know,  are  Pluto's  books) : 
If  Florimel  had  found  her  love, 
For  whom  she  hanged  herself  above  : 
How  oft  a  week  was  kept  a  ball 
By  Proserpine  at  Pluto's  hall. 
She  fancied  those  Elysian  shades 
The  sweetest  place  for  masquerades  : 
How  pleasant,  on  the  banks  of  Styx, 
To  troll  it  in  a  coach  and  six  ! 

What  pride  a  female  heart  inflames  ! 
How  endless  are  ambition's  aims  ! 
Cease,  haughty  nymph ;  the  fates  decree 
Death  must  not  be  a  spouse  for  thee : 
For  when,  by  chance,  the  meagre  shade 
Upon  thy  hand  his  finger  laid, — 
Thy  hand  as  dry  and  cold  as  lead, — 
His  matrimonial  spirit  fled. 
He  felt  about  his  heart  a  damp, 
That  quite  extinguished  Cupid's  lamp. 
Away  the  frighted  spectre  scuds. 
And  leaves  my  Lady  in  the  suds. 


LORD  LANSDOWNEi  (GEORGE  GRANVILLE). 

[George  Granville,  or  Greenvill,  born  in  1667,  was  created  Baron  Lansdowne 
of  Bideford  in  1711,  and  died  in  1735.  He  was  a  dramatist,  miscellaneous 
■writer,  and  politician,  having  held  various  offices,  including  the  secretaryship 
at  war.  At  the  accession  fof  George  I.,  he,  with  other  leaders  of  the  Tory 
party,  fell  into  disfavour  ;  and  he  suffered  an  imprisonment  of  several  months 
in  the  Tower  without  being  coerced  into  belying  his  principles]. 

LINES. 

Chloe's  the  wonder  of  her  sex. 

'Tis  well  her  heart  is  tender; 
How  might  such  killing  eyes  perplex, 

With  virtue  to  defend  her ! 

But  nature,  graciously  inclined 

With  liberal  hand  to  please  us, 
Has  to  her  boundless  beauty  joined 

A  boundless  bent  to  ease  us. 

1  Or  "Landsdown,"  as  the  title  is  often  written. 


ADDISON.  173 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

[Born  at  Milton,  Wilts,  11  May  1672  ;  died  in  Holland  House,  London,  17 
June  1719]. 

THE  PLAY-HOUSE. 

Where  gentle  Thames  through  stately  channels  glides, 

And  England's  proud  metropolis  divides, 

A  lofty  fabric  does  the  sight  invade, 

And  stretches  o'er  the  waves  a  pompous  shade  ; 

Whence  sudden  shouts  the  neighbourhood  surprise, 

And  thundering  claps  and  dreadful  hissings  rise. 

Here  thrifty  Rich  hires  monarchs  by  the  day, 
And  keeps  his  mercenary  kings  in  pay ; 
With  deep-mouthed  actors  fdls  the  vacant  scenes. 
And  rakes  the  stews  for  goddesses  and  queens. 
Here  the  lewd  punk,  with  crowns  and  sceptres  graced, 
Teaches  her  eyes  a  more  majestic  cast : 
And  hungry  monarchs,  with  a  numerous  train 
Of  suppliant  slaves,  like  Sancho,  starve  and  reign. 

But  enter  in,  my  Muse  ;  the  stage  survey. 
And  all  its  pomp  and  pageantry  display; 
Trapdoors  and  pitfalls  form  the  unfaithful  ground, 
And  magic  walls  encompass  it  around  : 
On  either  side  maimed  temples  fill  our  eyes, 
And,  intermixed  with  brothel-houses,  rise  ; 
Disjointed  palaces  in  order  stand, 
And  groves,  obedient  to  the  mover's  hand, 
O'ershade  the  stage,  and  flourish  at  command. 
A  stamp  makes  broken  towns  and  trees  entire  : 
So,  when  Amphion  struck  the  vocal  lyre, 
He  saw  the  spacious  circuit  all  around 
With  crowding  woods  and  rising  cities  crowned. 
But  next  the  tiring-room  survey,  and  see 
False  titles  and  promiscuous  quality 
Confus'dly  swarm,  from  heroes  and  from  queens 
To  those  that  swing  in  clouds  and  fill  machines. 
Their  various  characters  they  choose  with  art. 
The  frowning  bully  fits  the  tyrant's  part  : 
Swoln  cheeks  and  swaggering  belly  make  an  host ; 
Pale  meagre  looks  and  hollow  voice,  a  ghost. 
From  careful  brows  and  heavy  downcast  eyes, 
Dull  cits  and  thick-skulled  aldermen  arise  ; 
The  comic  tone,  inspired  by  Congreve,  draws 
At  every  word  loud  laughter  and  applause  : 
The  whining  dame  continues  as  before, 
Her  character  unchanged,  and  acts  a  whore. 
Above  the  rest,  the  prince,  with  haughty  stalks, 
Magnificent  in  purple  buskins  walks  : 
The  royal  robes  his  awful  shoulders  grace, 
Profuse  of  spangles  and  of  copper  lace. 


174  ADDTSOiV. 


Officious  rascals,  to  his  mighty  thigh 

Guiltless  of  blood,  the  unpointed  weapon  tie  : 

Then  the  gay  glittering  diadem  put  on, 

Ponderous  with  brass,  and  starred  with  Bristol  stone. 

His  royal  consort  next  consults  her  glass, 

And  out  of  twenty  boxes  culls  a  face. 

The  whitening  first  her  ghastly  looks  besmears, 

All  pale  and  wan  the  unfinished  form  appears; 

Till  on  her  cheeks  the  blushing  purple  glows, 

And  a  ialse  virgin-modesty  bestows. 

Her  ruddy  lips  the  deep  vermilion  dyes : 

Length  to  her  brows  the  pencil's  art  supplies, 

And  with  black-bending  arches  shades  her  eyes. 

Well  pleased  at  length  the  picture  she  beholds, 

And  spots  it  o'er  with  artificial  moles. 

Her  countenance  complete,  the  beaux  she  warms 

With  loolcs  not  hers  ;  and,  spite  of  nature,  charms. 

Thus  artfully  their  persons  they  disguise. 

Till  the  last  flourish  bids  the  curtain  rise. 

The  Prince  then  enters  on  the  stage  in  state  ; 

Behind,  a  guard  of  candle-snuffers  wait. 

There,  swoln  with  empire,  terrible  and  fierce, 

He  shakes  the  dome,  and  tears  his  lungs  with  verse. 

His  subjects  tremble  ;  the  submissive  pit 

Wrapped'  up  in  silence  and  attention  sit. 

Till,  freed  at  length,  he  lays  aside  the  weight 

Of  public  business  and  affairs  of  state  ; 

Forgets  his  pomp,  dead  to  ambition's  fires, 

And  to  some  peaceful  brandy-shop  retires  ; 

Where  in  full  gills  his  anxious  thoughts  he  dro\\Tis, 

And  quaffs  away  the  care  that  waits  on  crowns. 

The  Princess  next  her  painted  charms  displays, 
Where  every  look  the  pencil's  art  betrays  ; 
The  callow  squire  at  distance  feeds  his  eyes, 
And  silently,  for  paint  and  washes,  dies. 
But,  if  the  youth  behind  the  scenes  retreat, 
He  sees  the  blended  colours  melt  with  heat, 
And  all  the  trickling  beauty  run  in  sweat. 
The  borrowed  visage  he  admires  no  more. 
And  nauseates  every  charm  he  loved  before  : 
So  the  famed  spear,  for  double  force  renowned,  ■ 
Applied  the  remedy  that  gave  the  wound. 
In  tedious  lists  'twere  endless  to  engage, 
And  draw  at  length  the  rabble  of  the  stage  ; 
Where  one  for  twenty  years  has  given  alarms. 
And  called  contending  monarchs  to  their  arms. 
Another  fills  a  more  important  post. 
And  rises,  every  other  night,  a  ghost  ; 
Through  the  cleft  stage  his  mealy  face  he  rears, 
Then  stalks  along,  groans  thrice,  and  disappears. 


yOHN  PHILIPS.  175 

Others,  M'ith  swords  and  shields,  the  soldier's  pride, 
More  than  a  thousand  times  have  changed  their  side. 
And  in  a  thousand  fatal  battles  died. 

Thus  several  persons  several  parts  perform  ; 
Soft  lovers  whine,  and  blustering  heroes  storm  j 
The  stern  exasperated  tyrants  rage. 
Till  the  kind  bowl  of  poison  clears  the  stage. 
Then  honours  vanish,  and  distinctions  cease  ; 
Then,  with  reluctance,  haughty  queens  undress  ; 
Heroes  no  more  their  fading  laurels  boasf, 
And  mighty  kings  in  private  men  are  lost. 
He  whom  such  titles  swelled,  such  power  made  proud. 
To  whom  whole  realms  and  vanquished  nations  iDowed, 
Throws  off  the  gaudy  plume,  the  purple  train, 
And  in  his  own  vile  tatters  stinks  again. 


JOHN  PHILIPS. 

[Born  in  1676,  died  in  1708.  He  studied  as  a  physician  ;  but  bis  Splendid 
Shilling  (a  parody  on  the  l\IiItonian  style,  and  the  earliest  specimen  of  its  class) 
achieved  so  much  success  as  to  turn  his  attention  to  literature  instead.  It  was 
published  in  1703.  Other  writings  by  Philip?,  now  forgotten,  were  of  a  more 
ambitious  kind  :  and  an  early  death  put  a  stop  to  a  peculiarly  daring  project,  a 
poem  on  the  Last  Day]. 

THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING. 

"  ■ Sing,  heavenly  Muse  ! 

Things  unattempted  yet,  in  prose  or  rhyme," 
A  Shilling,  Breeches,  and  Chimeras  dire. 

Happy  the  man  who,  void  of  cares  and  strife, 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  Splendid  Shilling.     He  nor  hears  with  pain 
New  oysters  cried,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale  ; 
But  with  his  friends,  when  nightly  mists  arise, 
To  Juniper's  Magpie  or  Town-Hall '  repairs  i 
Where,  mindful  of  the  nymph  whose  wanton  eye 
Transfixed  his  soul  and  kindled  amorous  flames, 
Chloe  or  Phillis,  he  each  circling  glass 
Wisheth  her  health,  and  joy,  and  equal  love. 
Meanwhile,  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry  tale, 
Or  pim  ambiguous,  or  conundrum  quaint. 
But  I,  whom  griping  Penury  surrounds, 
And  Hunger,  sure  attendant  upon  Want, 
With  scanty  offals,  and  small  acid  tiff, 
(Wretched  repast  !)  my  meagre  corpse  sustain  : 
Then  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 
In  garret  vile,  and  with  a  warming  puff 
Regale  chilled  fingers  ;  or,  from  tube  as  black 

•'■  Two  noted  alehouses  at  Oxford  in  \^^■o, 


176  JOHN  PHILIPS. 


As  winter-chimney  or  well-polished  jet, 

Exhale  mundungus,  ill-perfuming  scent ! 

Not  blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size. 

Smokes  Cambro-Briton  (versed  in  pedigree, 

Sprung  from  Cadwallader  and  Arthur,  kings 

Full  famous  in  romantic  tale),  when  he 

O'er  many  a  craggy  hill  and  barren  cliff, 

Upon  a  cargo  of  famed  Cestrian  cheese, 

High  overshadowing  rides,  with  a  design 

To  vend  his  wares,  or  at  the  Arvonian  mart, 

Or  Maridunum,  or  the  ancient  town 

Yclept  Brechinia,  or  where  Vaga's  stream 

Encircles  Ariconium,  fruitful  soil  ! 

Whence  flow  nectareous  wines,  that  well  may  vie 

With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renowned  Falern. 

Thus  while  my  joyless  minutes  tedious  flow, 
With  looks  demure  and  silent  pace,  a  Dun, 
Horrible  monster  hated  by  gods  and  men. 
To  my  aerial  citadel  ascends. 
With  vocal  heel  thrice  thundering  at  my  gate, 
With  hideous  accent  thrice  he  calls  ;  I  know 
The  voice  ill-boding,  and  the  solemn  sound. 
What  should  I  do  ?  or  whither  turn  ?     Amazed, 
Confounded,  to  the  dark  recess  I  fly 
Of  wood-hole  ;  straight  my  bristling  hairs  erect 
Through  sudden  fear  ;  a  chilly  sweat  bedews 
My  shuddering  limbs,  and,  wonderful  to  tell  ! 
My  tongue  forgets  her  faculty  of  speech  ; 
So  horrible  he  seems  !     His  faded  brow. 
Entrenched  with  many  a  frown,  and  conic  beard, 
And  spreading  band  admired  by  modern  saints, 
Disastrous  acts  forebode  ;  in  his  right  hand 
Long  scrolls  of  paper  solemnly  he  waves. 
With  characters  and  figures  dire  inscribed, 
Grievous  to  mortal  eyes  ;  ye  gods,  avert 
Such  plagues  from  righteous  men  !     Behind  him  stalks 
Another  monster,  not  unlike  himself, 
Sullen  of  aspect,  by  the  vulgar  called 
A  Catchpole,   whose  polluted  hands  the  gods 
With  force  incredible  and  magic  charms 
Erst  have  endued.     If  he  his  ample  palm 
Should  haply  on  ill-fated  shoulder  lay 
Of  debtor,  straight  his  body,  to  the  touch 
Obsequious,  as  whilom  knights  were  wont, 
To  some  enchanted  castle  is  conveyed  ; 
Where  gates  impregnable  and  coercive  chains 
In  durance  strict  detain  him,  till,  in  form 
Of  money,  Pallas  sets  the  captive  free. 

Beware,  ye  Debtors  !  when  ye  walk,  beware, 
Be  circumspect  ;  oft  with  insidious  ken 


JOHN  PHILIPS.  1 7  7 


The  caitiff  eyes  your  steps  aloof,  and  oft 
Lies  perdu  in  a  nook  or  gloomy  cave, 
Prompt  to  enchant  some  inadvertent  wretch 
With  his  unhallowed  touch.     So  (poets  sing) 
Grimalkin,  to  domestic  vermin  sworn 
An  everlaoting  foe,  with  v.'atchful  eye 
Lies  nightly  broodmg  e'er  a  chinky  gap. 
Protending  her  fell  claws,  to  thoughtless  mice 
Sure  ruin.     So  her  disembowelled  web 
Arachne,  in  a  hall  or  kitchen,  spreads 
Otivious  to  vagrant  flies.      She  secret  stands 
Within  her  woven  cell :  the  humming  prey, 
Regardless  of  their  fate,  rush  on  the  toils 
Inextricable,  nor  will  aught  avail 
Their  arts,  or  arms,  or  shapes  of  lovely  hue. 
The  wasp  nisidious,  and  the  buzzing  drone, 
And  butterily,  proud  of  expanded  wings 
Distinct  witli  gold,  entangled  in  her  snares. 
Useless  resistance  make.     With  eager  strides, 
She  towering  flies  to  her  expected  spoils  ; 
Then,  with  envenomed  jaws,  the  vital  blood 
Drinks  of  reluctant  foes,  and  to  her  cave 
Their  bulky  carcasses  triumphant  drags. 

So  pass  my  days.     But,  when  nocturnal  shades 
This  world  envelop,  and  the  mclement  air 
Persuades  men  to  repel  benumbing  frosts 
With  pleasant  wines,  and  crackling  blaze  of  wood  ; 
Me,  lonely  sitting,  nor  the  glimmering  light 
Of  make-weight  candle,  nor  the  Joyous  talk 
Of  loving  friend,  delights.     Distressed,  forlorn, 
Amidst  tjie  horrors  of  the  tedious  night. 
Darkling  I  sigh,  and  feed  with  dismal  thoughts 
My  anxious  mind  ;  or  sometimes  mournful  verse 
Indite,  and  sing  of  groves  and  myrtle  shades, 
Or  desperate  lady  near  a  purling  stream, 
Or  lover  pendent  on  a  willow-tree. 
Meanwhile  I  labour  with  eternal  drought, 
And  restless  wish  and  rave  ;  my  parched  throat 
Finds  no  relief,  nor  heavy  eyes  repose. 
But,  if  a  slumber  haply  does  invade 
My  weary  limbs,  my  fancy's  still  awake. 
Thoughtful  of  drink,  and,  eager,  in  a  dream, 
Tipples  imaginary  pots  of  ale, — 
In  vain  ;  awake  I  find  the  settled  thirst 
Still  gnawing,  and  the  pleasant  phantom  curse. 

Tims  do  I  live,  from  pleasure  quite  debarred, 
Nor  taste  the  fruits  that  the  sun's  genial  rays 
Mature  ;  john-apple,  nor  the  downy  peach, 
Nor  walnut  in  rough-furrowed  coat  secure, 
Nor  medlar,  fruit  delicious  in  decay. 

M 


lyS  JEFFREYS. 


Afflictions  great  !  yet  gi-eater  still  remain. 

My  galligaskins,  that  have  long  withstood 

The  winter's  fury,  and  encroaching  frosts. 

By  time  subdued  (what  will  not  time  subdue?) 

An  horrid  chasm  disclosed  with  orifice 

Wide,  discontinuous  ;  at  which  the  winds 

Eurus  and  Auster,  and  the  dreadful  force 

Of  Boreas  that  congeals  the  Cronian  waves, 

Tumultuous  enter  with  dire  chilling  blasts, 

Portending  agues.     Thus  a  well-fraught  ship 

Long  sailed  secure,  or  through  the  ^gean  deep. 

Or  the  Ionian  ;  till,  cruising  near 

The  Lilybean  shore,  with  hideous  crash 

On  Scylla  or  Charybdis    (dangerous  rocks  !) 

She  strikes  I'ebounding.      Whence  the  shattered  oak, 

So  fierce  a  shock  unable  to  withstand, 

Admits  the  sea.     In  at  the  gaping  side 

The  crowding  waves  gush  with  impetuous  rage. 

Resistless,  overwhelming  ;  horrors  seize 

The  mariners  ;  Death  in  their  eyes  appears  ; 

They  stare,  they  lave,  they  pump,  they  swear,  they  pray. 

Vain  efforts  !     Still  the  battering  waves  rush  in, 

Implacable,  till,  deluged  by  the  foam. 

The. ship  sinks  foundering  in  the  vast  abyss. 


GEORGE  JEFFREYS. 

[Bom  in  1678,  died  in  1755.  Wrote  some  dramatic  pieces,  and  translated 
Vida's  poam  on  Chess.  Two  of  his  Tragedies,  Edwin  and  Merope,  were 
brought  on  the  stage]. 

A  RIDDLE  OF  DEAN  SWIFT'S,  VERSIFIED. 

You  ask  a  story,  not  more  strange  than  true  ; 
Nor  must  I  hide  it  from  a  friend  like  you. 
Without  disguise  my  wretched  lot  behold, 
In  all  its  train  of  circumstances  told. 
And,  though  perhaps  what  I  shall  first  advance 
May  make  the  whole  resemble  a  romance, 
A  solemn  truth  it  is — no  whim,  nor  jest  ; 
Which,  if  you  please,  the  Parson  shall  attest. 

Know  then,  dear  Sir,  my  present  situation 

Is  in  a  small  and  sorry  habitation, 

111  fitted-up  and  fenced  ;  upon  the  waste, 

Like  other  clay-built  cottages,  'tis  placed. 

In  this  poor  hut  I  breathe  with  care  and  pain ; 

And,  what  is  harder,  if  I  durst  complain. 

One  minute's  warning  turns  me  out  again. 

Held  by  a  sort  of  copy,  it  appears 

An  easy  bargain  for  the  first  seven  years  : 


JEFFREYS.  m 


For,  free  from  rent,  I  only  then  resort, 

As  bound  in  duty,  to  the  Manor-court ; 

There  once  a  week,  or  more,  to  custom  true, 

My  landlord  claims  the  suit  and  service  due. 

The  twenty  following  years  i^equire  a  rose 

In  annual  payment  to  my  worst  of  foes. 

My  next  acknowledgment  is  strangef  still  ; 

For,  soon  or  later,  at  my  landlord's  will. 

Each  third  or  second  year,  or  oftener  yet, 

A  tooth  discharges  my  unwelcome  delat  ; 

And,  when  to  answer  more  demands  I  fail, 

A  meagre  catchpole  hurries  me  to  jail. 

No  miscreant  so  remorseless  ever  tore 

Thy  journals,  Fog,  or  knocked  at  Franklin's  door. 

In  days  of  old,  on  better  terms  than  these 

I  might  have  occupied  the  premises. 

Ere  a  false  step  my  fond  great-grandsire  made. 

Warped  by  a  wheedling  wife,  their  race  betrayed. 

An  orchard  to  the  Manor-house  adjoined, 

Rich  in  delicious  fruits  of  every  kind  : 

In  robbing  it  the  gi-aceless  pair  were  caught 

By  a  bad  neighbour,   to  their  ruin  taught  : 

For  by  that  slip,  without  retrieve,  was  lost 

A  certain  privilege  they  once  could  boast ; 

And,  from  the  hour  when  they  were  turned  adrift, 

Their  hapless  line  have  made  this  woful  shift. 

However,  rubbing  onward  as  I  may, 

I  spare  no  pains  to  patch  my  house  of  clay  ; 

And  keep  it  in  a  tenantable  way. 

A  little  kitchen  serves  to  dress  my  fare, 

Shaped  like  an  oven,  rather  round  than  square  : 

My  garrets,  poorly  furnished,  I  may  load, 

Perhaps  too  much,  with  lumber  a-la-mode. 

To  this  low  state  uncomfortably  tied. 

Well  as  I  can  for  rent-day  I  provide  ; 

Tliat,  when  my  term  (as  soon  it  must)  shall  cease, 

My  gracious  Lord  may  sign  a  full  release. 

When  T  am  ousted,  a  mean  creeping  race, 
Doomed  to  succeed  me,  have  secured  the  place  ; 
Where  they  ai-e  sui-e  to  multiply  amain. 
Triumphant  o'er  their  foe  in  Abchurch  Lane. 

Meanwhile  tliis  lodge,  or  call  it  what  you  please, 

Has  one  snug  hole,  contrived  for  warmth  and  ease. 

On  the  left  side  of  my  abode  it  lies, 

And  for  my  friends  a  resting-place  supplies  : 

This  to  your  use  with  jjleasure  I  resign  ; 

Yours  is  the  lodging,  while  the  house  is  mine. 


I  So  THOMAS  SHERIDAN. 


THOMAS  SHERIDAN. 

[Dr.  Sheridan,  translator  of  Persius,  and  grandfather  of  Richard  Brinsley 
Sheridan,  was  born  in  1684,  and  died  in  173S,  He  was  a  clergyman,  and  a 
friend  of  Swift.  His  heart  was  as  light  as  his  purse  :  and  he  was  perpetually 
punning,  fiddling,  or  throwing  off  some  jocular  effu.sion.  On  the  anniversary 
of  the  accession  of  the  reigning  King,  George  I.,  Sheridan,  being  then  one  of 
the  chaplains  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant,  preached  from  the  text  "  sufficient  for 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof"     This  cost  him  his  chaplaincy]. 

DR.  DELANY'S  VILLA. 

Would  you  that  Delville  I  describe? 
Believe  me,  sir,  I  will  not  gibe  : 
For  who  could  be  satirical 
Upon  a  thing  so  very  small  ? 

You  scarce  upon  the  borders  enter, 
Before  you're  at  the  very  centre  : 
A  single  crow  can  make  it  night 
When  o'er  your  farm  she  takes  her  flight. 
Yet,  in  this  narrow  compass,  we 
Observe  a  vast  variety  ; 
Both  walks,  walls,  meadows,  and  parterres; 
Windows  and  doors,  and  rooms  and  stairs. 
And  hills  and  dales,  and  woods  and  fields, 
And  hay  and  grass  and  corn  it  yields  ; 
All  to  your  haggard  brought  so  cheap  in. 
Without  the  mowing  or  the  reaping  : 
A  razor,  though  to  say't  I'm  loth. 
Would  shave  you  and  your  meadows  both. 

Though  small's  the  farm,  yet  here's  a  house 
Full  large  to  entertain  a  mouse, 
But  where  a  rat  is  dreaded  more 
Than  savage  Calydonian  boar  ; 
For,  if  it's  entered  by  a  rat. 
There  is  no  room  to  bring  a  cat. 

A  little  rivulet  seems  to  steal 
Down  through  a  thing  you  call  a  vale, 
Like  tears  adown  a  wrinkled  cheek. 
Like  rain  along  a  blade  of  leek  : 
And  this  you  call  your  sweet  Meander, 
Which  might  be  sucked  up  by  a  gander, 
Could  he  but  force  his  nether  bill 
To  scoop  the  channel  of  the  rill. 
For  sure  you'd  make  a  mighty  clutter, 
Were  it  as  big  as  city  gutter. 

Next  come  I  to  your  kitchen  garden, 
Where  one  poor  mouse  would  fare  but  hard  in  \ 
And  round  this  garden  is  a  walk, 
No  longer  than  a  tailor's  chalk  ; 
Thus  I  compare  what  space  is  in  it, — 
A  snail  creeps  round  it  in  a  minute. 


MITCHELL.  i8i 


One  lettuce  makes  a  shift  to  squeeze 
Up  through  a  tuft  you  call  your  trees  : 
And,  once  a  year,  a  single  rose 
Peeps  from  the  bud,  but  never  blows. 
In  vain  then  you  expect  its  bloom  : 
It  cannot  blow  for  want  of  room. 

In  short,  in  all  your  boasted  seat, 
There's  nothing  but  yourself  that's  Great, 


JOSEPH  MITCHELL. 

[Bom  in  Scotland  towards  1684;  died  in  1738.  He  was  called  "Sir  Robert 
Walpole's  poet,"  being  one  of  that  miniver's  dependents.  Two  volumes  of  his 
poems  appeared  in  1729]. 

THE   CHARMS   OF   INDOLENCE. 

DEDICATED  TO  A  CERTAIN  LAZY  FEER. 

Thy  charms,  O  sacred  Indolence,  I  sing ; 
Droop,  yawning  Muse,  and  moult  thy  sleepy  wing. 
Ye  lolling  powers  (if  any  powers  there  be 
Who  loll  supine),  to  you  I  bend  my  knee  : 
O'er  my  lean  labour  shed  a  vapoury  breath, 
And  clog  my  numbers  with  a  weight  like  death. 
I  feel  the  arrested  wheels  of  meaning  stand  : 
With  poppy  tinged,  see  !  see  !  yon  waving  wand. 
Morpheus,  I  own  the  influence  of  thy  reign  ; 
A  drowsy  slotlr  creeps  cold  through  every  vein. 
Furred,  like  the  Muses'  magistrate,  I  sit, 
And  nod  superior  in  a  dream  of  wit. 
Action  expires,  in  honour  of  my  lays. 
And  mankind  snores  encomiums  to  my  praise. 

Hail,  holy  state  of  unalarmed  repose  ! 
Dear  source  of  honest  and  substantial  prose  ! 
Thou  blest  asylum  of  man's  wearied  race  ! 
Nature's  dumb  picture,  with  her  solemn  face  ! 
How  shall  my  pen,  untired,  thy  praise  pursue  ? 
Oh  woe  of  living  to  have  aught  to  do  ! 
'Till  the  almighty  fiat  wakened  life, 
And  wandering  chaos  rose  in  untried  strife. 
Till  atoms  jostled  atoms  in  the  deep, 
Nature  lay  careless,  in  eternal  sleep. 
No  whispering  hope,  no  murmuring  wish,  possessed 
A  place  in  all  the  extended  realms  of  rest. 
The  seeds  of  being  undisturbed  remained, 
And  indolence  through  space  unbounded  reigned. 
Thence,  lordly  Sloth,  thy  high  descent  we  trace  ; 
The  world's  less  ancient  than  thy  reverend  race. 
Antiquity's  whole  boast  is  on  thy  side, 
That  great  foundation  of  the  modern  pride. 


1 82  MITCHELL. 

Thou  wert  grown  old  before  the  birth  of  man, 

And  reign'dst  before  formation's  self  began  ; 

From  thee  creation  took  its  new-born  way, 

When  infant  Nature  smiled  on  opening  day. 

Now,  winking,  weary  of  the  oppressive  light, 

It  longs  to  be  re-hushed  in  lulling  night  : 

For  each  bold  starter  from  thy  powerful  reign 

Returns  at  length  thy  humble  slave  again. 

Oh  happy  he  who,  conscious  of  thy  sweets. 

Safe  to  thy  circling  arms  betimes  retreats  ! 

Raised  on  thy  downy  car,  he  shuns  all  strife. 

And  lolls  along  the  thorny  roads  of  life. 

Indulgent  dreams  his  slumbering  senses  please, 

And  his  numbed  spirits  shrink  to  central  ease. 

Nor  passion's  conflicts  his  soft  peace  infest, 

Nor  danger  rouses  his  unlistening  rest. 

Stretched  in  supine  content,  afloat,  he  lies, 

And  drives  down  time's  slow  stream,  with  unfixed  eyes. 

Lethargic  influence  bars  the  approach  of  pain. 

And  storms  blow  round  him,  and  grow  hoarse  in  vain. 

Forgetfulness  plays  balmy  round  his  head. 

And  halcyon  fogs  hang  lambent  o'er  his  bed. 

O  sovereign  Sloth,  to  whom  we  quiet  owe  ! 

Nature's  kind  nurse  !  soft  couch  for  weary  woe  ! 

Safe  in  thy  arms  the  unbusied  slumberer  lies, 

Lives  without  pain,  and  without  sighing  dies. 

States  rise  or  fall,  his  lot  is  still  the  same  ; 

For  he's  above  mischance  who  has  no  aim. 

How  curs'd  the  man  who  still  is  musing  found  ! 
His  mill-horse  soul  forms  one  eternal  round  ; 
When  wiser  beasts  lie  lost  in  needful  rest. 
He,  madman  !  wakes,  to  war  on  his  own  breast. 
Thoughts  dash  on  thoughts,  as  waves  on  waves  increase, 
And  storms  of  his  own  raising  wreck  his  peace. 
Now,  like  swift  coursers  in  the  rapid  race, 
His  spirits  strain  for  speed  ;  now,  with  slow  pace. 
The  sinking  soul,  tired  out,  scarce  limps  along, 
Sullen  and  sick  with  such  extremes  of  wrong. 
What  art  thou,  life,  if  care  corrodes  thy  span  ? 
A  gnawing  worm  !  a  bosom-hell  to  man  ! 
If  e'er  distracting  business  proves  my  doom, 
Thou,  Indolence,  to  my  deliverance  come  : 
Distil  thy  healing- balm,  like  softening  oil. 
And  cure  the  ignoble  malady  of  toil. 
Thou,  best  physician  !  canst  the  sulphur  find 
That  dries  this  itch  of  action  on  the  mind. 
Malice  and  lust,  voracious  birds  of  prey. 
That  outsoar  reason,  and  our  wishes  sway. 
Desire's  wild  seas,  on  which  the  wise  are  tossed, 


MITCHELL,  183 


By  pilot  Irxdolence  are  safely  crossed. 

Hushed  in  soft  rest  they  quiet  captives  lie, 

And,  wanting  nourishment,  grow  faint  and  die. 

By  thee,  O  sacred  Indolence,  the  sons 

Of  honest  Levi  loll  like  lazy  drones  ; 

"While  battered  hirelings  drudge  in  saying  prayer, 

Thou  tak'st  sleek  doctors  to  thy  downy  care. 

Well  dost  thou  help  to  form  the  double  chin, 

Dilate  the  paunch,  and  raise  the  reverend  mien. 

By  thee  with  stol'n  discourses  they  are  pleased, 

That  we  with  worse  may  not  be  dully  teased  : 

A  happiness  that  laymen  ought  to  prize 

Who  value  time  and  would  be  counted  wise. 

From  thee  innumerable  blessings  flow. 

What  coffee-man  does  not  thy  virtues  know  ? 

Tobacconists  and  newsmongers  revere 

Thy  lordly  influence,  with  religious  fear. 

Chairs,  coaches,  games,  the  glory  of  a  land, 

Are  all  the  labours  of  thy  lazy  hand. 

The  Excise,  the  Treasury,  strengthened  by  thy  aid. 

Own  thy  great  use  and  energy  in  trade. 

Who  does  not  taste  the  pleasures  of  thy  reign? 

Princes  themselves  are  servants  in  thy  train. 

Diogenes  !  thou  venerable  shade, 
Thou  wert  by  Indolence  immortal  made. 
Thee  most  I  envy  of  all  human  race  ; 
E'en  in  a  tub,  thou  held'st  thy  native  grace  ; 
Thy  soul  outsoared  the  \'ulgar  flights  of  life. 
And  looked  abroad,  with  scorn,  at  noise  and  strife. 
To  thy  hooped  palace  no  bold  business  pressed. 
No  thought  usurped  the  kingdom  of  thy  breast. 
Thou  to  high-fated  Alexander's  face 
Maintain'dst  Uiat  ease  was  nobler  far  than  place. 
The  insulted  world  before  him  bowed  the  knee : 
Thou  sat'st  unmoved,  more  conqueror  than  he. 

Scarce,  O  ye  advocates  for  wit's  wild  chase, 
Can  your  long  heads  be  reconciled  to  (hace  ; 
In  drowsy  dullness  deep  devotion  dwells, 
But  searchful  care  contented  faith  expels. 
Did  ever  Indolence  produce  despair. 
Or  to  rash  wishes  prompt  the  impatient  heir  ? 
When  murmurings  and  rebellions  shake  a  state. 
Does  love  of  rest,  or  action,  animate? 
When  did  two  sleepers  clash  in  murderous  war, 
Or  love  of  ease  draw  wranglers  to  the  bar? 
O'er  sea  and  land,  the  world's  wide  space  around, 
Poise  every  loss,  and  probe  each  aching  wound  ; 
Then  say  which  most,  or  business  or  repose, 
Worries  our  lives,  and  wakes  us  into  woes. 


1 84  MITCHELL. 

What  first  gave  talons  to  coercive  law  ? 
Small  need  to  keep  the  indolent  in  awe  ! 
Hatched  we  our  South-Sea  egg  by  want  of  thought? 
Are  jobbers'  any  arts  in  slumber  taught? 
What  state  was  ever  bubbled  out  of  sense 
By  good,  unfeared,  unmeanmg  Indolence  ? 
Weigh  and  consider,  now,  which  cause  is  best, 
And,  yawning,  yield — There's  happiness  in  rest. 

Oh  how  I  pity  those  deluded  fools, 
"Who  drudge  their  days  out  in  bewildering  schools — 
Who,  seeking  knowledge  with  assiduous  strife. 
Lose  their  long  toil,  and  make  a  hell  of  life  ! 
Grasping  at  shadows,  they  but  beat  the  air, 
And  cloud  the  spirits  they  attempt  to  clear. 
Jargon  of  tongues,  perplexive  terms  of  art, 
And  mazy  maxims,  but  benight  the  heart. 
No  end,  no  pause,  of  painful  search  they  know, 
But,  still  proceeding,  aggrandize  their  woe  ; 
Their  nakedness  of  soul  with  fig-leaves  hide. 
And  wrap  their  conscious  shame  in  veils  of  pride. 
Erring,  they  toil  some  shadowy  gleam  to  find. 
And,  wandering,  feel  their  way,  sublimely  blind. 
Learning  in  this, — in  that  scale,  doubt — be  laid  ; 
And  mark  how  pomp  is  by  plain  truth  outweighed. 

Hereafter  then,  ye  poring  students,  cease, 
Nor  maze  your  minds,  nor  break  your  chain  of  peace 
Make  truce  with  leisure  for  awhile,  and  view 
What  empty  nothings  your  desires  pursue. 
Remember,  Adam's  fatal  itch  to  know 
Was  tlie  first  bitter  spring  of  human  woe  : 
Think  how  presumptuous  'tis  for  breathing  clay 
To  tread  Heaven's  winding  paths,  and  lose  its  way. 
Think  what  short  limits  understanding  boasts. 
And  shun  the  enticements  of  her  shoaly  coasts. 
With  Solomon,  that  prudent  sage,  and  me, 
From  fruitless  labour  set  your  spirits  free  : 
Bind  up  bold  thought  in  slumber's  silky  chain, 
Since  all  we  act,  and  all  we  know,  is  vain. 


GA  Y.  lS5 


JOHN  GAY. 

[Born  at  Barnstaple,  Devonshire,  in  1688,  of  an  old  but  reduced  family  • 
died  on  4th  December  1732.  His  burlesque  pastorals-,  TAe  Shepherds  Week, 
foliowmg  some  dramatic  and  other  works,  obtained  high  popularity  ;  greatly 
increased  afterwards  by  his  Fables,  and  above  all  by  The  Beggar's  Opera,  pro- 
duced in  1727.  Disappointed  in  some  reasonably  grounded  claims  to  court- 
favour,  Gay  was  domesticated,  in  his  closing  years,  with  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Queensberry.  He  was  of  a  remarkably  good-natured,  easy,  attaching  dis-- 
positionL 

THE  LION,  THE  FOX,  AND  THE  GEESE. 

A  Lion,  tired  with  state  affairs, 

Quite  sick  of  pomp,  ar.d  worn  with  cares, 

Resolved,  remote  from  noise  and  strife, 

In  peace  to  pass  his  latter  life. 

It  was  proclaimed ;  the  day  was  set  : 

Behold  the  general  council  met. 

The  Fox  was  Viceroy  named.     The  a'owd 

To  the  ne^v  regent  humbly  bowed. 

Wolves,  bears,  and  mighty  tigers,  bend. 

And  strive  who  most  should  condescend. 

He  straight  assumes  a  solemn  grace. 

Collects  his  wisdom  in  his  face. 

The  crovi'd  admire  his  vwt,  his  sense  : 

Each  word  hath  weight  and  consequence. 

The  flatterer  all  his  art  displays  : 

He  who  hath  power  is  sure  of  praise. 

A  Fox  stepped  forth  before  the  rest, 

And  thus  the  servile  throng  addressed  : — 

"How  vast  his  talents,  born  to  rule, 
And  trained  in  Virtue's  honest  school  ! 
What  clemency  his  temper  sways  ! 
How  uncorrupt  are  all  his  ways ! 
Beneath  his  conduct  and  command, 
Rapine  shall  cease  to  w0,ste  the  land. 
His  brain  hath  stratagem  and  art ; 
Prudence  and  mercy  rule  his  heart ; 
What  blessings  must  attend  the  nation 
Under  this  good  administration  !" 

He  said.     A  Goose,  who  distant  stood, 
Harangued  apart  the  cackling  brood  : 

"  whene'er  I  hear  a  knave  commend, 
He  bids  me  shun  his  worthy  friend. 
What  praise  !  what  mighty  commendation! 
But  'twas  a  Fox  who  spoke  the  oration. 
Foxes  tliis  government  may  prize 
As  gentle,  plentifiil,  and  wise  ; 
If  they  enjoy  the  sweets,  'tis  plain 
We  Geese  must  feel  a  tyrant  reign. 
What  havoc  now  shall  thin  our  race, 
When  every  petty  clerk  in  place, 
To  prove  his  taste  and  seem  polite. 
Will  feed  on  Geese  both  noon  and  night  l" 


i86  GA  Y. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  CUB. 

How  fond  are  men  of  rale  and  place, 
Who  court  it  from  the  mean  and  base  ! 
These  cannot  bear  an  equal  nigh, 
But  from  superior  merit  fly. 
They  love  the  cellar's  vulgar  joke, 
And  lose  their  hours  in  ale  and  smoke  : 
There  o'er  some  petty  club  preside  ; 
So  poor,  so  paltry  is  their  pride  ! 
Nay,  even  with  fools  -whole  nights  will  sit, 
In  hopes  to  be  supreme  in  wit. 
If  these  can  read,  to  these  I  write, 
To  set  their  worth  in  truest  light. 

A  Lion-cub,  of  sordid  mind, 
Avoided  al  1  the  lion  kind  ; 
Fond  of  applause,  he  sought  the  feasts 
Of  vulgar  and  ignoble  beasts  ; 
With  asses  all  his  time  he  spent, 
Their  club's  perpetual  president. 
He  caught  their  manners,  looks,  and  airs  : 
An  ass  in  everything  but  ears ! 
If  e'er  his  highness  meant  a  joke. 
They  grinned  applause  before  he  spoke  ; 
But  at  each  word  what  shouts  of  praise  ! 
"Good  gods  !  how  natural  he  brays  !" 

Elate  with  flattery  and  conceit. 
He  seeks  his  royal  sire's  retreat ; 
Forward  and  fond  to  show  his  parts, 
His  highness  brays  ;  the  Lion  starts. 

"  Puppy,  that  curs'd  vociferation 
Betrays  thy  life  and  conversation  : 
Coxcombs,  an  ever  noisy  race, 
Are  trumpets  of  their  own  disgrace." 

"  Why  so  severe?"  the  Cub  replies  ; 
"  Gur  senate  always  held  me  wise." 

"How  weak  is  pride  !  "  returns  the  sire  : 
^' All  fools  are  vain  when  fools  admire  ! 
But  know,  what  stupid  asses  prize 
Lions  and  noble  beasts  despise." 


THE  RATCATCHER  AND  CATS. 

The  rats  by  night  such  mischief  did, 
Betty  was  every  morning  chid. 
They  undermined  whole  sides  of  bacon, 
Her  cheese  was  sapped,  her  tarts  were  taken  ; 
Her  pasties,  fenced  with  thickest  paste, 
Were  all  demolished  and  laid  waste. 


GAY.  187 

She  cursed  the  Cat  for  want  of  duty, 
Who  left  her  foes  a  constant  booty. 

An  engineer  of  noted  skill 
Engaged  to  stop  the  growing  ill, 
From  room  to  room  he  now  surveys 
Their  haunts,  their  works,  their  secret  ways  ; 
Finds  where  they  scape  an  ambuscade. 
And  whence  the  nightly  sally's  made. 

An  envious  Cat  from  place  to  place, 
Unseen,  attends  his  silent  pace. 
She  saw  that,  if  his  trade  went  on. 
The  purring  race  must  be  undone  ; 
So,  secretly  removes  his  baits, 
And  every  stratagem  defeats. 

Again  he  sets  the  poisoned  toils, 
And  Puss  again  the  labour  foils. 

"What  foe  (to  frustrate  my  designs) 
My  schemes  thus  nightly  countermines  ?  " 
Incensed  he  cries  ;    "this  very  hour 
The  wretch  shall  bleed  beneath  my  power." 

So  said — a  ponderous  trap  he  brought, 
And  in  the  fact  poor  Puss  was  caught. 

"  Smuggler,"  says  he,  "thou  shalt  be  made 
A  victim  to  our  loss  of  trade." 

The  captive  Cat,  with  piteous  mews, 
For  pardon,  life,  and  freedom,  sues. 
"  A  sister  of  the  science  spare  ; 
One  interest  is  our  common  care." 

"  What  insolence  !  "  the  man  replied  ; 
"Shall  Cats  with  us  the  game  divide? 
Were  all  your  interloping  band 
Extinguished,  or  expelled  the  land, 
We  Rat-catchers  might  raise  our  fees. 
Sole  guardians  of  a  nation's  cheese  !" 

A  Cat,  who  saw  the  lifted  knife. 
Thus  spoke,  and  saved  her  sister's  life  ; 

"  In  every  age  and  clime,  we  see, 
Two  of  a  trade  can  ne'er  agree. 
Each  hates  his  neighbour  for  encroaching. 
Squire  stigmatizes  squh-e  for  poacbiiig  ; 
Beauties  with  beauties  are  in  arms, 
And  scandal  pelts  each  other's  charms  ; 
Kings,  too,  their  neighbour  kings  dethrone, 
In  hope  to  make  the  world  their  own. 
But  let  us  limit  our  desires, 
Nor  war  like  beauties,  kings,  and  squires  ; 
For,  though  we  both  one  prey  ]>ursue, 
There's  game  enough  for  us  and  you." 


1 88  GA  V. 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  AND  HER  CATS. 

Who  friendship  with  a  knave  hath  made 
Is  judged  a  partner  in  the  trade. 
The  matron  who  conducts  abroad 
A  willing  nympli  is  thought  a  bawd  ; 
And,  if  a  modest  girl  be  seen 
With  one  who  cures  a  lover's  spleen. 
We  guess  her  not  extremely  nice. 
And  only  wish  to  know  her  price. 
'Tis  thus  that  on  the  choice  of  friends 
Our  good  or  evil  name  depends. 

A  wrinkled  Hag,  of  wicked  fame, 
Beside  a  little  smoky  flame 
Sat  hovering,  pinched  with  age  and  frost  : 
Her  shrivelled  hand,  with  veins  embossed, 
Upon  her  knees  her  weight  sustains, 
While  palsy  shook  her  crazy  brains. 
She  mumbles  forth  her  backward  prayers, 
An  imtamed  scold  of  fourscore  years. 
About  her  swarmed  a  numerous  brood 
Of  Cats,  who,  lank  with  hunger,  mewed. 

Teased  with  their  cries,  her  choler  grew, 
And  thus  she  sputtered  :  "  Hence,  ye  crew  ! 
Fool  that  I  was  to  entertain 
Such  imps,  such  fiends,  a  hellish  train  ! 
Had  ye  been  never  houised  and  nursed, 
I  for  a  witch  had  ne'er  been  cursed. 
To  you  I  owe  that  crowds  of  boys 
Worry  m.e  with  eternal  noise  ; 
Straws  laid  across  my  pace  retard. 
The  horse-shoe's  nailed,  each  threshold's  guard. 
The  stunted  broom  the  wenches  hide, 
For  fear  that  I  should  up  and  ride  ; 
They  stick  with  pins  my  bleeding  seat, 
And  bid  me  show  my  secret  teat." 

"  To  hear  you  prate  would  vex  a  saint ; 
Who  hath  most  reason  of  complaint  ?" 
Replies  a  Cat.     "  Let's  come  to  proof; 
Had  we  ne'er  starved  beneath  your  roof, 
We  had,  like  others  of  our  race, 
In  credit  lived  as  beasts  of  chase. 
'Tis  infamy  to  serve  a  hag  ; 
Cats  are  thought  imps,  her  broom  a  nag  ! 
And  boys  against  cur  lives  combine, 
Because,  'tis  said,  }'oi(r  cats  have  nine." 


ga  y.  189 


iTHE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE  SNAIL. 

All  upstarts,  insolent  in  place, 
Remind  us  of  their  vulgar  race. 

As,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  morn, 
A  Butterfly,  but  newly  born, 
Sat  proudly  perking  on  a  rose, 
With  pert  conceit  his  bosom  glows. 
His  wings,  all  glorious  to  behold, 
Bedropped  with  azure,  jet,  and  gold, 
Wide  he  displays  ;  the  spangled  dew 
Reflects  his  eyes  and  various  hue. 

His  now-forgotten  friend,  a  Snail, 
Beneath  his  house,  with  slimy  trail 
Crawls  o'er  the  grass  ;  whom  when  he  spies, 
In  wrath  he  to  the  gardener  cries  : 

"  What  means  yon  peasant's  daily  toil, 
From  choking  weeds  to  rid  the  soil? 
Why  wake  you  to  the  morning's  care? 
Why  with  new  arts  correct  the  year  ? 
Why  grows  the  peach  v/ith  crimson  hue, 
And  why  the  plum's  inviting  blue? 
Were  they  to  feast  his  taste  designed, 
That  vermin  of  voracious  kind  ? 
Crush  then  the  slow,  the  pilfering  race  ; 
So  purge  thy  garden  from  disgrace." 

"  What  arrogance  !"  the  Snail  replied; 
"  How  insolent  is  upstart  pride  ! 
Hadst  thou  not  thus,  with  insult  vain, 
Provoked  my  patience  to  complain, 
I  had  concealed  thy  meaner  birth. 
Nor  traced  thee  to  the  scum  of  earth. 
For  scarce  nine  suns  have  waked  the  hours, 
To  swell  the  fruit,  and  paint  the  flowers, 
Since  I  thy  humbler  life  surveyed. 
In  base  and  sordid  guise  arrayed ; 
A  hideous  insect,  vile,  unclean. 
You  dragged  a  slow  and  noisome  train ; 
And  from  your  spider  bowels  drew 
Foul  film,  and  spun  the  dirty  clue. 
I  own  my  humble  life,  good  friend  ; 
Snail  was  I  born,  and  Snail  shall  end. 
And  what's  a  Butterfly  ?     At  best. 
He's  but  a  caterpillar,  dressed  ; 
And  all  thy  race  (a  numerous  seed) 
Shall  prove  of  caterpillar  breed." 


I90  GAV. 


THE  FOX  AT  THE  POINT  OF  DEATH. 

A  Fox,  in  life's  extreme  decay, 
Weak,  sick,  and  faint,  expiring  lay  : 
AH  appetite  had  left  his  maw, 
And  age  disarmed  his  mumbling  jaw. 
His  numerous  race  around  him  stand 
To  learn  their  dying  sire's  command. 
He  raised  his  head  with  whining  moan, 
And  thus  was  heard  the  feeble  tone  :  ^ 

"  Ah  sons  !  from  evil  ways  depart : 
My  crimes  lie  heavy  on  my  heart. 
See  !  see  !  the  murdered  geese  appear  ! 
Why  are  those  bleeding  turkeys  there? 
Why  all  around  this  cackling  train. 
Who  haunt  my  ears  for  chicken  slain  ?  " 

The  hungry  foxes  round  them  stared, 
And  for  the  promised  feast  prepared. 

"  Where,  Sir,  is  all  this  dainty  cheer  ? 
Nor  turkey,  goose,  nor  hen,  is  here. 
These  are  the  phantoms  of  your  brain, 
And  your  sons  lick  their  lips  in  vain." 

"  O  gluttons  !  "  says  the  drooping  sire, 
■  "  Restrain  inordinate  desire  ; 
Your  licorish  taste  you  shall  deplore 
When  peace  of  conscience  is  no  more. 
Does  not  the  hound  betray  our  pace, 
And  gins  and  guns  destroy  our  race  ? 
Thieves  dread  the  searching  eye  of  power, 
And  never  feel  the  quiet  hour. 
Old  age  (which  few  of  us  shall  know) 
Now  puts  a  period  to  my  woe. 
Would  you  true  happiness  attain, 
Let  honesty  your  passions  rein  ; 
So  live  in  credit  and  esteem, 
And  the  good  name  you  lost  redeem." 

"The  counsel's  good,"  a  Fox  replies, 
"Could  we  perform  what  you  advise. 
Think  what  our  ancestors  have  done  ; 
A  line  of  thieves  from  son  to  son : 
To  us  descends  the  long  disgrace. 
And  infamy  hath  marked  our  race. 
Though  we,  like  harmless  sheep,  should 

feed. 
Honest  in  thought,  in  word,  in  deed, 
Whatever  hen-roost  is  decreased. 
We  shall  be  thought  to  share  the  feast. 
The  change  shall  never  be  believed  : 
A  lost  good  name  is  ne'er  retrieved." 


GA  Y.  191 


"Nay,  then,"  replies  the  feeble  Fox, 
"  (But  hark !  I  hear  a  hen  that  clocks) 
Go,  but  be  moderate  in  your  foodj — 
A  chicken  too  might  do  me  good," 


THE  MASTIFF. 

Those  who  in  quarrels  interpose 
Must  often  wipe  a  bloody  nose. 

A  Mastiff  of  true  English  blood 
Loved  fighting  better  than  his  food. 
When  dogs  were  snarling  for  a  bone. 
He  longed  to  make  the  war  liis  own ; 
And  often  found,  when  two  contend, 
To  interpose  obtained  his  end. 
He  gloried  in  his  limping  pace  ; 
The  scars  of  honour  seamed  his  face ; 
In  every  limb  a  gash  appears, 
And  frequent  fights  retrenched  his  ears. 

As  on  a  time  he  heard  from  far 
Two  dogs  engaged  in  noisy  war, 
Away  he  scours  and  lays  about  him, 
Resolved  no  fray  should  be  without  him. 

Forth  from  his  yard  a  tanner  flies, 
And  to  the  bold  intruder  cries  ; 
"  A  cudgel  shall  correct  your  manners  : 
Whence  sprung  this  cursed  hate  to  tanners? 
While  on  my  dog  you  vent  your  spite. 
Sirrah  !  'tis  me  you  dare  not  bite." 

To  see  the  battle  thus  perplexed, 
With  equal  rage  a  butcher  vexed, 
Hoarse-screaming  from  the  circled  crowd, 
To  the  curs'd  Mastiff  cries  aloud  : 
"Both  Hockley-Hole  and  Marybone 
The  combats  of  my  dog  have  known. 
He  ne'er,  like  bullies  coward-hearted, 
Attacks,  in  public  to  be  parted. 
Think  not,  rash  fool,  to  share  his  fame  ; 
Be  liis  the  honour  or  the  shame." 

Thus  said,  they  swore,  and  raved  like  thunder, 
Then  dragged  their  fastened  dogs  asunder; 
While  clubs  and  kiclcs  from  every  side 
Rebounded  from  the  Mastiff's  hide. 

All  reeking  now  with  sweat  and  blood, 
Awhile  the  parted  wan-iors  stood, 
Then  poured  upon  the  meddling  foe; 
Who,  worried,  howled  and  sprawled  Iclow. 
He  rose  ;  and,  limping  from  the  fray. 
By  both  sides  mangled,  sneaked  away. 


192  GA  Y. 


THE  TURKEY  AND  THE  ANT. 

In  other  men  we  laults  can  spy, 
And  blame  the  mote  that  dims  their  eye  : 
Each  little  speck  and  blemish  find, 
To  our  own  stronger  errors  blind. 

A  Turkey,  tired  of  common  food, 
Forsook  the  barn,  and  sought  the  wood  : 
Behind  her  ran  an  infant  train, 
Collecting  here  and  there  a  grain. 
"  Draw  near,  my  birds,"  the  mother  cries  ; 
"This  hill  delicious  fare  supplies; 
Behold,  the  busy  Negro  race  ! 
See,  millions  blacken  all  the  place ! 
Fear  not.     Like  me  with  freedom  eat ; 
An  Ant  is  most  delightful  meat. 
How  bless'd,  how  envied,  were  our  life. 
Could  we  but  scape  the  poulterer's  knife  ! 
But  man,  curs'd  man,  on  Turkeys  preys, 
And  Christmas  shortens  all  our  days  : 
Sometimes  with  oysters  we  combine. 
Sometimes  assist  the  savoury  chine. 
From  the  low  peasant  to  the  lord. 
The  Turkey  smokes  on  every  board. 
Sure,  men  for  gluttony  are  curs'd, — 
Of  the  seven  deadly  sins  the  worst." 

An  Ant,  who  climbed  beyond  her  reach, 
Thus  answered  from  the  neighbouring  beech : 
"Ere  you  remark  another's  sin, 
Bid  thy  own  conscience  look  within ; 
Control  thy  more  voracious  bill, 
Nor  for  a  breakfast  nations  kill." 


THE  TWO  MONKEYS. 

The  learned,  full  of  inward  pride, 
The  Fops  of  outward  show  deride  ; 
The  Fop,  with  learning  at  defiance, 
Scoffs  at  the  pedant  and  the  science. 
The  Don,  a  formal  solemn  strutter, 
Despises  Monsieur's  airs  and  flutter; 
While  Monsieur  mocks  the  formal  fool, 
AVho  looks  and  speaks  and  walks  by  rule. 
Britain,  a  medley  of  the  twain. 
As  pert  as  France,  as  grave  as  Spain, 
In  fancy  wiser  than  the  rest, 
Eaughs  at  them  both,  of  both  the  jest. 
Is  not  the  poet's  chiming  close 
Censured  by  all  the  sons  of  prose  ? 


GA  V.  193 

While  bards  of  quick  imagination 
Despise  the  sleepy  prose  narration. 
Men  laugh  at  Apes,  t/iey  men  contemn  ; 
For  what  are  we  but  Apes  to  them  ? 

Two  Monkeys  went  to  Southwark  fair ; 
No  critics  had  a  sourer  air. 
They  forced  their  way  through  draggled  folks, 
Who  gaped  to  catch  Jack-pudding's  jokes  ; 
Then  took  their  tickets  for  the  show. 
And  got,  by  chance,  the  foremost  row. 
To  see  their  grave  observing  face 
Provoked  a  laugh  through  all  the  place. 

"  Brother,"  says  Pug,  and  turned  his  head, 
"The  rabble's  monstrously  ill  bred  !" 

Now  through  the  booth  loud  hisses  ran ; 
Nor  ended  till  the  show  began. 
The  tumbler  whirls  the  flip-flap  round, 
With  somersets  he  shakes  the  ground. 
The  cord  beneath  the  dancer  springs  ; 
Aloft  in  air  the  vaulter  swings  ; 
Distorted  now,  now  prone  depends, 
Now  through  his  twisted  arms  ascends. 
The  crowd,  in  wonder  and  delight, 
With  clapping  hands  applaud  the  sight. 
With  smiles,  quoth  Pug,  "  If  pranks  like  these 
The  giant  Apes  of  reason  please, 
How  would  they  wonder  at  our  arts  ! 
They  must  adore  us  for  our  parts. 
High  on  the  twig  I've  seen  you  cling, 
Play,  twist,  and  turn,  in  airy  ring. 
How  can  those  clumsy  things,  like  me, 
Fly  with  a  bound  from  tree  to  tree  ? 
But  yet,  by  this  applause,  we  find 
These  emulators  of  our  kind 
Discern  our  worth,  our  parts  regard, 
Who  our  mean  mimics  thus  reward." 

"Brother,"  the  grinning  mate  replies, 
"  In  this  I  grant  that  man  is  wise. 
While  good  example  they  pursue. 
We  must  allow  some  praise  is  due  ; 
But,  when  they  strain  beyond  their  guide, 
I  laugh  to  scorn  the  mimic  pride. 
For  how  fantastic  is  the  sight 
To  meet  men  always  bolt  upright. 
Because  we  sometimes  walk  on  two  ! 
I  hate  the  imitating  crew." 


N 


194  GA  V. 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  FLEA. 

Whether  on  earth,  in  air,  or  main, 
Sure  every  thing  aUve  is  vain. 

Does  not  the  liawk  all  fowls  survey, 
As  destined  only  for  his  prey? 
And  do  not  tyrants,  prouder  things, 
Think  men  were  born  for  slaves  to  kings  ? 

"When  the  crab  views  the  pearly  strands. 
Or  Tagus  bright  with  golden  sands  ; 
Or  crawls  beside  the  coral  grove, 
And  hears  the  ocean  roll  above  ; 
"Nature  is  too  profuse,"  says  he, 
"  Who  gave  all  these  to  pleasure  me  !" 
When  bordering  pinks  and  roses  bloom, 
And  every  garden  breathes  perfume  ; 
When  peaches  glow  with  sunny  dyes. 
Like  Laura's  cheek  when  blushes  rise  ; 
When  with  huge  figs  the  branches  bend ; 
When  clusters  from  the  vine  depend; 
The  snail  looks  round  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  cries,  "All  these  were  made  for  me  !" 

"What  dignity's  in  human  nature  ! " 
Says  Man,  the  most  conceited  creature, 
As  from  a  cliff  he  cast  his  eye, 
And  viewed  the  sea  and  arched  sky. 
The  sun  was  sunk  beneath  the  main ; 
The  m^oon  and  all  the  starry  train 
Hung  the  vast  vault  of  Heaven.     The  Man 
His  contemplation  thus  began : 

"  When  I  behold  this  glorious  show, 
And  the  wide  watery  world  below, 
The  scaly  people  of  the  main, 
The  beasts  that  range  the  wood  or  plain, 
The  wing'd  inhabitants  of  air, 
The  day,  the  night,  the  various  year. 
And  know  all  these  by  Heaven  designed 
As  gifts  to  pleasure  human-kind ; 
I  cannot  raise  my  M^orth  too  high  ; 
Of  what  vast  consequence  am  I  !" 

*'Not  of  the  importance  you  suppose," 
Replies  a  Flea  upon  his  nose. 
"  Be  humble,  learn  thyself  to  scan': 
Know,  pride  was  never  made  for  man. 
'Tis  vanity  that  swells  thy  mind. 
What,  heaven  and  earth  for  thee  designed  ! 
For  thee  !  made  only  for  our  need. 
That  more  important  Fleas  might  feed  !" 


GA  Y.  195 

VERSES  TO  BE  PLACED  UNDER  THE  PICTURE  OF  SIR 
RICHARD  BLACKMORE, 

CONTAINING  A  COMPLETE  CATALOGUE  OF  HIS  WORKS.l 

See  who  ne'er  was  nor  will  be  half  read. 

Who  first  sang  Arthur,  then  sang  Alfred  ; 

Praised  great  Eliza  in  God's  anger. 

Till  all  true  Englishmen  cried  "  Hang  her  !  " 

Mauled  human  wit  in  one  thick  satire  ; 

Next  in  three  books  spoiled  human  nature  ; 

Undid  Creation  at  a  jerk, 

And  of  Redemption  made  damned  work  ; 

Then  took  his  Muse  at  once,  and  dipped  her 

Full  in  the  middle  of  the  Scripture. 

AVhat  wonders  there  the  man  grown  old  did  ! 

Sternhold  himself  he  out-Sternholded  ; 

Made  David  seem  so  mad  and  freakish 

All  thought  him  just  what  thought  King  Achish  ; 

No  mortal  read  his  Solomon 

But  judged  Reboam  his  own  son  ; 

Moses  he  served  as  Moses  Pharaoh, 

And  Deborah  as  she  Sisera  ; 

Made  Jeremy  full  sore  to  cry. 

And  Job  himself  curse  God  and  die. 

What  punishment  all  this  must  follow  ? 
Shall  Arthur  use  him  like  King  Tollo? 
Shall  David  as  Uriah  slay  him? 
Or  dexterous  Deborah  Sisera  him  ? 
Or  shall  Eliza  lay  a  plot 
To  treat  him  like  her  sister  Scot  ? 
No,  none  of  these  ;  Heaven  save  his  life, — 
But  send  him,  honest  Job,  thy  wife  ! 


A  NEW  SONG  OF  NEW  SIMILES. 
My  passion  is  as  mustard  strong  ; 

I  sit  all  sober  sad  ; 
Drunk  as  a  piper  all  day  long. 

Or  like  a  March-hare  mad. 

Round  as  a  hoop  the  bumpers  flow  ; 

I  drink,  yet  can't  forget  her  ; 
For,  though  as  drunk  as  David's  sow, 

I  love  her  still  the  better. 

Pert  as  a  pear-monger  Fd  be, 

If  Molly  were  but  kind  ; 
Cool  as  a  cucumber,  could  see 

The  rest  of  womankind. 

1  Elackniore,  a  versifiei-  now  remembered  only  by  name,  was  the  author  of 
A7«o-  Arthur  (an  epic),  The  Creation,  &c.  &c. 


196  GAY. 


Like  a  stuck  pig,  I  gaping  stare, 

And  eye  her  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Lean  as  a  raJce,  with  sighs  and  care, — 

Sleek  as  a  mouse  before. 

Plump  as  a  partridge  was  I  known, 

And  soft  as  silk  my  skin  ; 
My  cheeks  as  fat  as  butter  grown, 
But  as  a  goat  now  thin  ! 

I,  melancholy  as  a  cat, 

Am  kept  awake  to  weep  ; 
But  she,  insensible  of  that, 

Sound  as  a  top  can  sleep. 

Hard  is  her  heart  as  flint  or  stone, 

She  laughs  to  see  me  pale  ; 
And  merry  as  a  grig  is  grown, 

And  brisk  as  bottled  ale. 

The  god  of  love,  at  her  approach, 

Is  busy  as  a  bee  ; 
Hearts,  sound  as  any  bell  or  roach. 

Are  smit,  and  sigh  like  me. 

Ah  me  !  as  thick  as  hops  or  hail 
The  fine  men  crowd  about  her  ; 

But  soon  as  dead  as  a  door-nail 
Shall  I  be,  if  witliout  her. 

Straight  as  my  leg  her  shape  appears  : 
Oh  were  we  joined  together  ! 

My  heart  would  be  scot-free  fi^om  cares, 
And  lighter  than  a  feather. 

As  fine  as  fivepence  is  her  mien. 

No  drum  was  ever  tighter  ; 
Her  glance  is  as  tlie  razor  keen, 

And  not  tlie  sun  is  brighter. 

As  soft  as  pap  her  kisses  are, — 

Methinks  I  taste  them  yet  ; 
Brown  as  a  berry  is  her  hair. 

Her  eyes  as  black  as  jet. 

As  smooth  as  glass,  as  white  as  curds, 

Her  pretty  hand  invites  ; 
Sharp  as  her  needle  are  her  words. 

Her  wit  like  pepper  bites. 

Brisk  as  a  body-louse  she  trips. 

Clean  as  a  penny  dressed  ; 
Sweet  as  a  rose  her  breath  and  lips, 

Round  as  the  globe  her  breast. 


GA  V.  197 


Full  as  an  egg  was  I  with  glee, 

And  happy  as  a  king  : 
Good  Lord  !  how  all  men  envied  me  ! 

She  loved  like  anything. 

But  false  as  hell,  she,  like  the  wind, 
Changed,  as  her  sex  must  do  : 

Though  seeming  as  the  turtle  kind, 
And  like  the  gospel  true. 

If  I  and  Molly  could  agree, 
Let  who  would  take  Peiax  ! 

Great  as  an  Emperor  should  I  be, 
And  richer  than  a  Jew. 

Till  you  grow  tender  as  a  chick, 

I'm  dull  as  any  post  ; 
Let  us  like  curs  together  stick, 

And  warm  as  any  toast. 

You'll  know  me  truer  than  a  die, 
And  wish  me  better  speed, — 

Flat  as  a  flounder  when  I  lie. 
And  as  a  herring  dead. 

Sure  as  a  gun  she'll  drop  a  tear, 
And  sigh,  perhaps,  and  wish, 

When  I  am  rotten  as  a  pear. 
And  mute  as  any  fish. 


LISLE.i 

EUR  YD  ICE. 

When  Orpheus  went  down  to  the  regions  below, 

Which  men  are  forbidden  to  see  ; 
He  tuned  up  his  lyre,  as  old  histories  show, 

To  set  his  Eurydice  free. 

All  hell  was  astonished  a  person  so  wise 

Should  rashly  endanger  his  life. 
And  venture  so  far  ;  but  how  vast  their  surprise 

When  they  heard  that  he  came  for  his  wife  ! 

To  find  out  a  punishment  due  for  his  fault 

Old  Pluto  long  puzzled  his  brain  ; 
But  licU  had  not  torments  sufficient,  he  thought, — 

•So  he  gave  him  his  wife  back  again. 

1  I  h.ive  looked  in  various  books  for  any  particulars  about  this  writer,  but 
without  success.  His  Eurydice  is  given  in  Aikin's  Collection  of  English  Songs 
(edition  1810) :  the  first  edition  of  which  book  w.is  published  in  1772.  From  a 
peculiarity  ofrhymiuK  common  at  one  time  — "fault"  with  "thought"— I  pre- 
sume the  poem  may  have  been  written  at  some  such  date  as  1720  to  1750. 


198  SAMUEL   WESLEY  {JUNE.) 

But  pity^ succeeding  soon  vanquished  his  heart ; 

And,  pleased  with  his  playing  so  well, 
He  took  her  again  in  reward  of  his  art, — 

Such  merit  had  music  in  hell. 


SAMUEL  WESLEY  (JUNR.) 

[See  Samuel  Wesley  (Sen. ),  p.  154.  The  Rev.  Samuel  Wesley,  Jun.,  was 
born  towards  1692,  and  died  in  1739.  He  was  for  many  years  an  usher  in 
Westminster  School,  and  afterwards  Head  Master  of  Tiverton  School.  He 
was  an  extreme  high  Tory,  and  strongly  disapproved  of  the  religious  movement 
promoted  by  his  brother  John]. 

ON  THE  SETTING-UP  MR.  BUTLER'S  1  MONUMENT  IN 
WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

While  Butler,  needy  wretch,  was  yet  alive, 

No  generous  patron  would  a  dinner  give  : 

See  him,  when  starved  to  death  and  turned  to  dust. 

Presented  with  a  monumental  bust ! 

The  poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown ; 

He  asked  for  bread,  and  he  received  a  stone. 


ADVICE  TO  ONE  WHO  WAS  ABOUT  TO  WRITE,  TO  AVOID 

THE  IMMORALITIES  OF  THE  ANCIENT  AND 

MODERN  POETS. 

If  e'er  to  writing  you  pretend. 
Your  utmost  aim  and  study  bend 
The  paths  of  virtue  to  befriend. 

However  mean  your  ditty; 
That,  while  your  verse  the  reader  draws 
To  reason's  and  religion's  laws. 
None  e'er  hereafter  may  have  cause 

To  curse  your  being  witty. 

No  gods  or  weak  or  wicked  feign  ; 
Where  foolish  blasphemy  is  plain. 
But  good  to  wire-draw  from  the  strain 

The  critic's  art  perplexes. 
Make  not  a  pious  chief  forego 
A  Princess  he  betrayed  to  woe. 
Nor  shepherd,  unplatonic,  shovy 

His  fondness  for  Alexis. 

With  partial  blindness  to  a  side. 
Extol  not  surly  stoic  pride, 
When  wild  ambition's  rapid  tide 
Bursts  nature's  bonds  asunder  : 

1  Butler,  the  author  oi  Hudibras. 


SAMUEL   WESLEY  (JUNR.)  I99 


Nor  let  a  hero  loud  blaspheme, 
Rave  like  a  madman  in  a  dream, 
Till  Jove  himself  affrighted  seem, 
Not  trusting  to  his  thunder. 

Nor  choose  the  wanton  Ode,  to  praise 
Unbridled  loves  or  thoughtless  days, 
In  soft  Epicurean  lays  ; 

A  numerous  melting  lyric  : 
Nor  satire  that  would  lust  chastise 
With  angry  warmth  and  maxim  wise, 
Yet,  loosely  painting  naked  vice, 

Becomes  its  panegyric. 

Nor  jumbled  atoms  entertain 

In  the  void  spaces  of  your  brain, — 

Deny  all  gods,  while  Venus  vain 

Stands  without  vesture  painted : 
Nor  show  tbe  foul  nocturnal  scene 
Of  courts  and  revellings  unclean. 
Where  never  libertine  had  been 

Worse  than  the  poet  tainted. 

Nor  let  luxuriant  fancy  rove 

Through  nature,  and  through  art  of  love. 

Skilled  in  smooth  Elegy  to  move, 

Youth  unexperienced  firing  : 
Nor  gods  as  brutes  expose  to  view, 
Nor  monstrous  crimes,  nor  lend  a  clue 
To  guide  the  guilty  lover  through 

The  mazes  of  desiring. 

Nor  sparrow  mourn,  nor  sue  to  kiss; 
Nor  draw  your  fine-spun  wit  so  nice 
That  thin-spread  sense  like  nothing  is, 

Or  worse  than  nothing  showing  : 
Nor  spite  in  Epigram  declare, 
Pleasing  the  mob  with  lewdness  bare. 
Or  flattery's  pestilential  air 

In  ears  of  princes  blowing. 

Through  modern  Italy  pass  down 

(In  crimes  inferior  she  to  none). 

Through  France,  her  thoughts  in  lust  alone 

Without  reserve  proclaiming : 
Stay  there  who  count  it  worth  the  while! 
Let  tts  deduce  our  useful  style 
To  note  tlie  poets  of  our  isle, 

And  only  spare  the  naming. 

Sing  not  loose  stories  for  the  nonce,! 
Where  mirtli  for  bawdry  ill  atones. 
Nor  long-tongued  wife  of  Bath,  at  once 


200  SAMUEL.   WESLEY  {JUNR.) 

\ 

On  earth  and  heaven  jesting: 
Nor,  while  the  main  at  virtue  aims, 
Insert,  to  soothe  forbidden  flames, 
In  a  chaste  work,  a  squire  of  dames. 

Or  Paridell  a-feasting. 

Nor  comic  licence  let  us  see, 
Where  all  things  sacred  outraged  be, 
Where  plots  of  mere  adultery 

Fill  the  lascivious  pages. 
One  only  step  can  yet  remain. 
More  frankly,  shamelessly  unclean. — 
To  bring  it  from  behind  the  scene, 

And  act  it  on  the  stages. 

Nor  make  your  tragic  hero  bold 

Out-bully  Capaneus  of  old, 

While  justling  gods  his  rage  behold, 

And  tremble  at  his  frowning. 
Nor  need'st  thou  vulgar  wit  display, 
Acknowledged  in  dramatic  way 
Greatest  and  best ;  Oh  spare  the  lay 

Of  poor  Ophelia  drowning  ! 

Nor  dress  your  shame  in  courtly  phrase, 
Where  artful  breaks  the  fancy  raise, 
And  ribaldry  unnamed  the  lays 

Transparently  is  seen  in  : 
Nor  make  it  your  peculiar  pride 
To  strive  to  show  what  others  hide, 
To  throw  the  fig-leaf  quite  aside  ; 

And  scorn  a  double  meaning. 

Nor  ever  prostitute  th^  Muse, 
Malicious,  mercenary,  loose. 
All  faith,  all  parties,  to  abuse  ; 

Still  changing,  still  to  evil : 
Make  Maximin  with  heaven  engage. 
Blaspheming  Sigismonda  rage. 
Draw  scenes  of  lust  in  latest  age. 

Apostle  of  the  Devil. 

Detest  profaning  holy  writ, — 

A  rock  where  heathens  could  not  split. 

Old  Jove  more  harmless  charmed  the  pit, 

Of  Plautus's  creation. 
Than  when  the  adulterer  was  showed 
With  attributes  of  real  God 
But  fools  the  means  of  grace  allowed 

Pervert  to  their  damnation. 

Mingle  not  wit  with  treason  rude, 
To  please  the  rebel  multitude: 


MA  TTHE  W  GREEN.  201 

From  poison  intermixed  with  food 

What  caution  e'er  can  screen  us? 
Ne'er  stoop  to  court  a  wanton  smile; 
Thy  pious  strains  and  lofty  style, 
Too  light,  let  nor  an  Alma  soil. 

Nor  paltry  dove  of  Venus. 

Such  plots  deform  the  tuneful  train, 
Whilst  they  false  glory  would  attain, 
Or  present  mirth,  or  present  gain. 

Unmindful  of  hereafter. 
Do  you  mistaken  ends  despise. 
Nor  fear  to  fall,  nor  seek  to  rise, 
Nor  taint  the  good,  nor  grieve  the  wise. 

To  tickle  fools  with  laughter. 

What  though  with  ease  you  could  aspire 

To  Virgil's  art  or  Homer's  fire. 

If  vice  and  lewdness  breathes  the  lyre, 

If  virtue  it  asperses? 
Better  with  honest  Quarles  compose 
Emblem  that  good  intention  shows, 
Better  be  Bunyan  in  his  prose, 

Or  Stenihold  in  his  verses. 


MATTHEW  GREEN. 

[Born  in  1696,  died  in  1737.  An  official  In  the  London  Custom-Housc,  and 
author  of  the  poem  named  The  Spleen — which,  hke  the  rest  of  his  compositions, 
was  only  published  after  his  death]. 

AN   EPIGRAM 

ON  THE  REV.   MR.   LAURENCE  EACHARD's  AND  BISHOP  GILBERT  BURNET's 

HISTORIES. 

Gil's  history  appears  to  me 

Political  anatomy  ; 

A  case  of  skeletons  well  done. 

And  malefactors  every  one. 

His  sharp  and  strong  incision-pen 

Historically  cuts-up  men, 

And  does  with  lucid  skill  impart 

Their  inward  ails  of  head  and  heart. 

Laurence  proceeds  another  way. 

And  well-dressed  figures  does  display  : 

His  characters  are  all  in  flesh. 

Their  hands  are  fair,  their  faces  fresh  ; 

And  from  his  sweetening  art  derive 

A  better  scent  than  when  alive. 

He  wax-work  made  to  please  the  sons 

Whose  fathers  were  Gil's  skeletons. 


202  MATTHEW  GREEN. 


THE  SPARROW  AND  DIAMOND. 

I  LATELY  saw  what  now  I  sing, 
Fair  Lucia's  hand  displayed  ; 

This  finger  graced  a  diamond  ring, 
On  that  a  sparrow  played. 

The  feathered  plaything  she  caressed, 
She  stroked  its  head  and  wings  ; 

And,  while  it  nestled  on  her  breast. 
She  lisped  the  dearest  things. 

With  chisel  bill  a  spark  ill  set 

He  loosened  from  the  nest. 
And  swallowed  down  to  grind  his  meat. 

The  easier  to  digest. 

She  seized  his  bill  with  wild  affright. 

Her  diamond  to  descry: 
'Twas  gone !  she  sickened  at  the  sight. 

Moaning  her  bird  would  die. 

The  tongue-tied  knocker  none  might  use. 

The  curtains  none  undraw ; 
The  footmen  went  without  their  shoes, 

The  street  was  laid  with  straw. 

The  doctor  used  his  oily  art 

Of  strong  emetic  kind  ;    . 
The  apothecary  played  his  part. 

And  engineered  behind. 

When  physic  ceased  to  spend  its  store 

To  bring  away  the  stone, 
Dicky,  like  people  when  given  o'er, 

Picks  up  when  let  alone. 

His  eyes  dispelled  their  sickly  dews, 

He  pecked  behind  his  wing ; 
Lucia,  recovering  at  the  news. 

Relapses  for  the  ring. 

Meanwhile  within  her  beauteous  breast 
Two  different  passions  strove  ; 

When  avarice  ended  the  contest. 
And  triumphed  over  love. 

Poor  little,  pretty,  fluttering  thing! 

Thy  pains  the  sex  display 
Who  only  to  repair  a  ring 

Could  take  thy  life  away ! 

Drive  avarice  from  your  breasts,  ye  fair. 
Monster  of  foulest  mien ; 


DODSLEY.  20  J 


Ye  would  not  let  it  harbour  there, 
Could  but  its  form  be  seen. 

It  made  a  virgin  put-on  guile,  °^ 
Truth's  image  Ijreak  her  word, 

A  Lucia's  face  forbear  to  smile, 
A  Venus  kill  her  bird. 


ROBERT  DODSLEY. 

[Born  in  1703,  died  in  1774.  A  footman  whose  integrity,  industry,  and  good 
sense-  advanced  him  to  the  position  of  the  leading  English  bookseller  of  his 
time.  His  first  publication  was  named  The  Muse  in  Livery  ;  followed  by  some 
plays  — r/i(^  Toyshop  and  Cleoiie  were  more  especially  successful— a  very  popu- 
lar little  volume  entitled  The  Economy  of  Human  Life,  and  other  works,  ori- 
ginal or  re-edited]. 

THE   FOOTMAN. 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  IIY  FRIEND,  MR.  WRIGHT. 

Dear  Friend, — Since  I  am  now  at  leisure. 

And  in  the  country  taking  pleasure. 

If  it  be  worth  your  while  to  hear 

A  silly  footman's  business  there, 

I'll  try  to  tell,  in  easy  rhyme. 

How  I  in  London  spend  my  time. 

And  first ; — 

As  soon  as  laziness  will  let  me, 
I  rise  from  bed,  and  down  I  set  me 
To  cleaning  glasses,  knives,  and  plate. 
And  such-like  dirty  work  as  that, 
Which  (by  the  bye)  is  what  I  hate. 
This  done,  with  expeditious  care. 
To  dress  myself  I  straight  prepare. 
I  clean  my  buckles,  black  my  shoes, 
Powder  my  wig,  and  brush  my  clothes. 
Take  off  my  beard,  and  wash  my  face  ; 
And  then  I'm  ready  for  the  chace. 

Down  comes  my  lady's  woman  straight : 

"Where's  Robin  ?  "     "  Here."     "Pray  take  your  hat, 

And  go— and  go — and  go — and  go — ; 

And  this — and  that  desire  to  know." 

'Phe  charge  received,  away  run  I, 

And  here  and  there  and  yonder  fly. 

With  services,  and  how-d  ye-does  ; 

Then  home  return  full-fraught  with  news. 

Here  some  short  time  does  interpose, 
Till  warm  eflluvias  greet  my  nose, 
Which  from  the  spits  and  kettles  fly, 
Declaring  dinner-time  is  nigh. 


204  DODSLEY. 


To  lay  the  cloth  1  now  prepare, 
With  uniformity  and  care  ; 
In  order  knives  and  forks  are  laid, 
With  folded  napkins,  salt,  and  bread  : 
The  side-boards  glittering  too  appear, 
With  plate,  and  glass,  and  china-ware. 
Then,  ale,  and  beer,  arid  wine  decanted, 
And  all  things  ready  which  are  wanted, 
The  smoking  dishes  enter  in. 
To  stomachs  sharp  a  grateful  scene ; 
Which  on  the  table  being  placed. 
And  some  few  ceremonies  past. 
They  all  sit  down,  and  fall  to  eating. 
Whilst  I  behind  stand  silent  waiting. 

This  is  the  only  pleasant  hour 
Which  I  have  in  the  twenty-four  ; 
For,  whilst  I  unregarded  stand, 
With  ready  salver  in  my  hand, 
And  seem  to  understand  no  more 
Than  just  what's  called  for  out  to  pour, 
I  hear  and  mark  the  courtly  phrases, 
And  all  the  elegance  that  passes  ; 
Disputes  maintained  without  digression, 
With  ready  wit  and  fine  expression  ; 
The  laws  of  true  politeness  stated, 
And  what  good-breeding  is,  debated  : 
Where  all  unanimous  exclude 
The  vain  coquet,  the  formal  prude. 
The  ceremonious,  and  the  rude, 
The  flattering,  fawning,  praising  train, 
The  fluttering,  empty,  noisy,  vain  ; 
Detraction,  smut,  and  what's  profane. 

This  happy  hour  elapsed  and  gone, 

The  time  of  drinking  tea  comes  on. 

The  kettle  filled,  the  water  boiled. 

The  cream  provided,  biscuits  piled. 

And  lamp  prepared,  i  straight  engage 

The  Lilliputian  equipage 

Of  dishes,  saucers,  spoons,  and  tongs, 

And  all  the  et  ccetera  which  thereto  belongs. 

Which,  ranged  in  order  and  decorum, 

I  carry  in  and  set  before  'em  ; 

Then  pour  or  green  or  Bohea  out. 

And,  as  commanded,  hand  about. 

This  business  over,  presently 
The  hour  of  visiting  draws  nigh  ; 
The  chairmen  straight  prepare  the  chair, 
A  lighted  flambeau  I  prepare  ; 


DODSLEY.  205 


And,  orders  given  where  to  go, 

We  march  along,  and  bustle  through 

The  parting  crowds,  who  all  stand  off 

To  give  us  room.     Oh  how  you'd  laugh 

To  see  me  strut  before  a  chair. 

And  with  a  sturdy  voice  and  air 

Crying — "By  your  leave.  Sir;  have  a  care  !  " 

From  place  to  place  with  speed  we  fly, 

And  rat-tatat  the  knockers  cry. 

"  Pray  is  your  lady,  Sir,  within  ?" 

If  "no,"  go  on  ;  if  "yes,"  we  enter  in. 

Then  to  the  hall  I  guide  my  steps, 
Amongst  a  crowd  of  brother  skips. 
Drinking  small -beer,  and  talking  smut. 
And  this  fool's  nonsense  putting  that  fool's  out 
Whilst  oaths  and  peals  of  laughter  meet. 
And  he  who's  loudest  is  the  greatest  wit. 
But  here  amongst  us  the  chief  trade  is 
To  rail  against  our  Lords  arid  Ladies  : 
To  aggravate  their  smallest  failings,  _  _ 
To  expose  their  faults  with  saucy  railings. 
For  my  part,  as  I  hate  the  practice. 
And  see  in  them  how  base  and  black  'tis, 
To  some  bye  place  I  therefore  creep, 
And  sit  me  down,  and  feign  to  sleep  ; 
Aiad,  could  I  with  old  Morpheus  bargain, 
'Twould  save  my  ears  much  noise  and  jargon. 

But  down  my  Lady  comes  again, 

And  I'm  released  from  my  pain. 

To  some  new  place  our  steps  we  bend, 

The  tedious  evening  out  to  spend  ; 

Sometimes,  perhaps,  to  see  the  play. 

Assembly,  or  the  opera  ; 

Then  home  and  sup,  and  thus  we  end  tV,e  day. 


2o6  FIELDING. 


SOAME  JENYNS. 

[Born  in  1704,  died  in  1787.  Made  some  figure  in  fashion  and  in  politics, 
and  is  now  best  remembered — and  even  that  more  by  tradition  than  otherwise 
—as  author  of  a  poem  on  The  Art  qf  Dancing]. 

SONG. 

When  first  I  sought  fair  Coelia's  love, 

And  every  charm  was  new, 
I  swore  by  all  the  Gods  above 

To  be  for  ever  true. 

But  long  in  vain  did  I  adore. 

Long  wept  and  sighed  in  vain  ; 
Still  she  protested,  vowed,  and  swore, 

She  ne'er  would  ease  my  pain. 

At  last  o'ercome  she  made  me  blest, 

And  yielded  all  her  charms  ; 
And  I  forsook  her  when  possessed, 

And  fled  to  others'  arms. 

But  let  not  this,  dear  Ccelia,  now 

To  rage  thy  breast  incline  ; 
For  why,  since  you  forget  your  vow, 

Should  I  remember  mine  ? 


HENRY  FIELDING. 

[Born   at   Sharpham  near  Glastonbury,  22  April  1707  ;   died   in   Lisbon,  S 
October  1754]. 

PLAIN  TRUTH. 

As  Bathian  Venus  t'other  day 
Invited  all  the  Gods  to  tea, 
Her  maids  of  honour,  the  Miss  Graces 
Attending  duly  in  their  places, 
Their  godships  gave  a  loose  to  mirth, 
As  we  at  Buttering's  here  on  earth. 

Minerva  in  her  usual  way 
Rallied  the  daughter  of  the  sea. 
"Madam,"  said  she,  "your  loved  resort, 
The  city  where  you  hold  your  court, 
Is  lately  fallen  from  its  duty, 
And  triumphs  more  in  wit  than  beauty  ; 

For  here,"  she  cried,   "see  here  a  poem ■ 

'Tis  Dalston's  ;  you,  Apollo,  know  him," 
Little  persuasion  sure  invites 
Pallas  to  read  what  Dalston  writes  : 
Nay,  I  have  heard  that  in  Parnassus 
For  truth  a  current  whisper  jiasse.s, 


FIELDING.  207 

That  Dalston  sometimes  has  been  known 
To  publish  her  words  as  his  own. 

Minerva  read,  and  every  God 
Approved — ^Jove  gave  the  critic  nod  : 
Apollo  and  the  sacred  Nine 
AVere  charmed,  and  smiled  at  every  line  ; 
And  Mars,  who  little  understood, 
Swore,  damn  him  if  it  was  not  good  ! 
Venus  alone  sat  all  the  while 
Silent,  nor  deigned  a  single  smile. 
All  were  surprised  :  some  thought  her  stupid  : 
Not  so  her  confident  squire  Cupid  ; 
For  well  the  little  rogue  discerned 
At  what  his  mother  was  concerned. 
Yet  not  a  word  the  urchin  said, 
But  hid  in  Hebe's  lap  his  head. 
At  length  the  rising  choler  broke 
From  Venus'  lips, ^ and  thus  she  spoke. 

"That  poetry  so  crammed  with  wit, 
Minerva,  should  your  palate  hit, 
I  wonder  not,  nor  that  some  prudes 
(For  such  there  are  above  the  clouds) 
Should  wish  the  prize  of  beauty  torn 
From  her  they  view  with  envious  scorn. 
Me  poets  never  please  but  when 
Justice  and  truth  direct  their  pen. 
This  Dalston — formerly  I've  known  him  ; 
Henceforth  for  ever  I  disown  him  ; 
For  Homer's  wit  shall  I  despise 
In  him  who  writes  with  Homer's  eyes. 
A  poem  on  the  fairest  fair 
At  Bath,  and  Betty's  name  not  there  ! 
Hath  not  this  poet  seen  those  glances 
In  which  my  wicked  urchin  dances  ? 
Nor  that  dear  dimple  where  he  treats 
Himself  with  all  Arabia's  sweets  ; 
In  whose  soft  down  while  he  reposes, 
In  vain  the  lilies  bloom,  or  roses, 
To  tempt  hijn  from  a  sweeter  bed 
Of  fairer  white  or  livelier  red  ? 
Hath  he  not  seen,  when  some  kind  gale 
Has  blown  aside  the  cambric  veil, 
That  seat  of  paradise,  where  Jove 
Might  pamper  his  almighty  love? 
Our  milky  way  less  fair  does  show  : 
There  sunnncr's  seen  'twixt  hills  of  snow. 
From  her  loved  voice,  whene'er  she  speaks. 
What  softness  in  each  accent  breaks  ! 
And,  when  her  dimpled  smiles  arise, 
"What  sweetness  sparkles  in  her  eyes .' 


2o8  FIELDING. 


Can  I  then  bear,"  enraged  she  said, 
"Slights  offered  to  my  favourite  maid, — 
The  nymph  whom  I  decreed  to  be 
The  representative  of  me  ?  " 

The  Goddess  ceased — the  Gods  all  bowed, 
Nor  one  the  wicked  bard  avowed, 
Who,  while  in  beauty's  praise  he  writ, 
Dared  Beauty's  Goddess  to  omit : 
For  now  their  godships  recollected 
'Twas  Venus'  self  he  had  neglected, 
Who  in  her  visits  to  this  place 
Had  still  worn  Betty  Dalston's  face. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  SIR  ROBERT  WAI.POLE. 

While  at  the  helm  of  State  you  ride. 
Our  nation's  envy,  and  its  pride  ; 
While  foreign  Courts  with  wonder  gaze, 
And  curse  those  counsels  that  they  praise  ; 
Would  you  not  wonder,  sir,  to  view 
Your  bard  a  greater  man  than  you  ? 
Which  tliat  he  is  you  cannot  doubt 
When  you  have  read  the  sequel  out. 

You  know,  great  sir,  that  ancient  fellows, 
Philosophers  and  such  folks,  tell  us 
No  great  analogy  between 
Greatness  and  happiness  is  seen. 
If  then,  as  it  might  follow  straight. 
Wretched  to  be  is  to  be  great. 
Forbid  it,  gods,  that  you  should  try 
What  'tis  to  be  so  great  as  I ! 

The  family  that  dines  the  latest 
Is  in  our  street  esteemed  the  greatest  ; 
But  latest  hours  must  surely  fall 
'Fore  him  who  never  dines  at  all. 
Your  taste  in  architect,  you  know. 
Hath  been  admired  by  friend  and  foe  ; 
But  can  your  earthly  domes  compare 
With  all  my  castles — in  the  air? 
We're  often  taught,  it  doth  behove  us 
To  think  those  greater  who're  above  us  ; 
Another  instance  of  my  glory, 
Who  live  above  you,  twice  two  story. 
And  from  my  garret  can  look  down 
On  the  whole  street  of  Arlington. 

Greatness  by  poets  still  is  painted 
AVith  many  followers  acquainted  : 


LYTTELTON.  209 


This,  too,  doth  in  my  favour  speak  ; 
Your  levee  is  but  twice  a  week  ; 
From  mine  I  can  exclude  but  one  day, — 
My  door  is  quiet  on  a  Sunday. 

Nor  in  the  manner  of  attendance 

Doth  your  great  bard  claim  less  ascendance. 

Familiar  you  to  admiration 

May  be  approached  by  all  the  nation  ; 

While  I,  like  the  Mogul  in  Indo, 

Am  never  seen  but  at  my  window. 

If  with  my  greatness  you're  offended, 

The  fault  is  easily  amended  ; 

For  I'll  come  down,  with  wondrous  ease. 

Into  whatever //«<r£?  you  please. 

I'm  not  ambitious  ;  little  matters 

Will  serve  us  great  but  humble  creatures. 

Suppose  a  secretary  o'  this  isle, 
Just  to  be  doing  with  a  while  ; 
Admiral,  general,  judge,  or  bishop  : 
Or  I  can  foreign  treaties  dish  up. 
If  the  good  genius  of  the  nation 
Should  call  me  to  negotiation, 
Tuscan  and  French  are  in  my  head, 
Latin  I  write,  and  Greek — I  read. 
If  you  should  ask  what  pleases  best — 
To  get  the  most,  and  do  the  least  ; 
What  fittest  for? — you  know,  I'm  sure, 
I'm  fittest  for — a  sinecure. 


LORD  LYTTELTON  (GEORGE  LYTTELTON). 

[George,  son  of  Sir  Thomas  Lyttelton,  Bart.,  w.is  born  in  1709,  and  died  in 
1773.  In  Parliament  he  acted  as  a  member  of  the  liberal  opposition  against  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  and  became  secretary  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  He  was  after- 
wards in  office  as  a  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  and  later  as  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer. On  the  dissolution,  in  1759,  of  the  ministry  with  which  he  acted,  he 
was  raised  to  the  peerage.  He  wrote  Dialogues  o/thc  Dead,  and  various  other 
works  ;  and  as  a  poet  is  known  chiefly  by  his  monody  on  the  death  of  his  wife 
^\\v~,  first  wife,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached.  A  second  marriage  proved 
unfortunate]. 

TO   MISS    LUCY    FORTESCUE.i 

ON  HER  PLEADING  WANT  OF  TIME. 

On  Thames's  bank,  a  gentle  youth 
For  Lucy  sighed  with  matchless  truth, 

Even  when  lie  sighed  in  rhyme  j 
The  lovely  maid  his  llame  returned, 
And  would  with  equal  warmth  have  burned, 

But  that  she  had  not  time. 

i  The  lady  whom  Lyttelton  afterwards  married  as  his  first  wife. 

O 


2IO  BANCKS. 


Oft  he  repaired  with  eager  feet 
In  secret  shades  this  fair  to  meet 

Beneath  the  accustomed  lime  ; 
She  would  have  fondly  met  him  there. 
And  healed  with  love  each  tender  care, 

But  that  she  had  not  time. 

"  It  was  not  thus,  inconstant  maid, 
You  acted  once"  (the  shepherd  said), 

"When  love  was  in  its  prime." 
She  grieved  to  hear  him  thus  complain, 
And  would  have  writ  to  ease  his  pain, 

But  that  she  had  not  time. 

"  Hovv  can  you  act  so  cold  a  part  ? 

No  crime  of  mine  has  changed  your  heart. 

If  love  be  not  a  crime. 
We  soon  must  part  for  months,  for  years  "- 
She  would  have  answered  with  her  tears, 

But  that  she  had  not  time. 


JOHN  BANCKS. 

{Born  in  i7og,-died  in  1751.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  weaver  ;  b-.it,  having 
broken  an  arm,  was  obliged  to  leave  this  employment,  and  then  set  up  a  book- 
stall in  Spltalfields.  He  next  became  a  journeyman  to  a  bookseller,  and  started 
a  Weaver's  AlisccUauy,  which  was  successful,  and  launched  him  on  a  thriving 
career  of  authorship.  A  Life  0/ Christ,  often  reprinted,  was  one  of  his  works  ; 
also  a  Critical  Review  of  the  Life  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  Our  specimen  refers 
no  doubt  to  the  tribulations  which  Bancks  used  to  endure  from  wind  and  cold, 
while  in  charge  of  his  book-stall]. 

TO  BOREAS. 

Blow,  Boreas,  foe  to  human  kind  ! 
Blow,  blustering,  freezing,  piercing  wind  ! 
Blow,  that  thy  force  I  may  rehearse, 
While  all  my  thoughts  congeal  to  verse  ! 

Blow,  and  the  strongest  proofs  dispense 
To  every  doubtful  reader's  sense  ! 
But  chiefly  chill  the  critic's  nose 
Who  dares  the  truths  I  sing  oppose  ! 

Where'er  old  hoary  Winter's  feared. 
There  thou  with  trembling  art  revered  : 
In  thee  the  dreaded  power  remains 
By  which  the  snowy  monarch  yeigns. 

The  leaves  that  beautified  the  trees, 
And  waved  before  a  softer  breeze. 
Torn  off  by  thee,  are  scattered  round, 
To  wither  on  the  rusty  groimd. 


BANCKS. 

Where  rapid  rivers  used  to  flow, 
To  glass  the  silent  waters  grow  : 
The  mighty  Volga  feels  thy  force. 
And  Dwina  stagnates  in  his  course. 

Even  oozy  Thames  submits  to  thee  ; 
Thames,  like  the  neighbouring  valleys,  free  !  \ 
Augusta's  sons,  in  sportive  mood, 
Oft  tread  the  surface  of  his  flood. 

To  the  proud  Czar's  terrific  fleet, 
Which  half  the  nations  fear  to  meet. 
Thou  dost  thy  strict  injunctions  give, 
Nor  can  it  stir  without  thy  leave. 

Thy  presence  on  Britannia's  plains 
To  chimney-corner  drives  her  swains  : 
There  thy  severity  they  shun  ; 
And  thither  I  would  gladly  run  ! 

But  I  (so  Jove  and  Fate  command) 
Exposed  to  all  thy  rage  must  stand  : 
Condemned  thy  tyranny  to  bear, 
Unpitied,  half  the  tedious  year  ! 

Though  close  begirt  with  garments  three, 
Not  garments  can  defend  from  thee  ; 
Thy  penetrating  force  will  find 
Or  hole  before,  or  slit  behind. 

In  vain  my  hands  my  bosom  hides  ; 
In  vain  I  shield  them  by  my  sides  ; 
In  vain  exhale  the  warmer  air 
Which  my  too  feeble  lungs  prepare. 

In  vain  upon  the  distant  tiles 
The  God  of  day  indulgent  smiles. 
His  influence  I  should  never  know, 
But  for  the  drops  of  melted  snow. 

The  melted  snow  beneath  my  feet 
Still  makes  thy  empire  more  complete. 
My  aged  shoes,  not  water-proof, 
Admit  those  droppings  of  the  roof. 

Full  in  my  face  is  always  driven, 
By  thcc,  whatc'er  descends  from  heaven, 
Or  snow,  or  rain,  or  sleet,  or  hail  ; 
Nor  can  the  pent-house  aught  avail ! 

But  hold  !  I  feel  my  senses  clog  : 
Down  drops  my  P'ancy,  like  a  log  : 
Like  thickening  streams  my  numbers  run. 
And  slowly  drag  the  meaning  on. 


211 


212  WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

It  stops  ;  it  hardens  in  a  trice  ! 

Lo  !  all  converts  to  solid  ice  ! 

To  prove  thy  power  as  much  as  needs, 

Enough  to  freeze  the  wretch  who  reads. 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

[Bom  in  1715,  died  in  1785.     Succeeded  Cibber  as  Poet  Laureate  in  1757 
not  without  exciting  many  satirical  protests  from  Churchill  and  others]. 

VARIETY. 

A  TALE  FOR  MARRIED  PEOPLE.  ^ 

A  GENTLE  maid,  of  rural  breeding, 
By  Nature  first,  and  then  by  reading, 
Was  filled  with  all  those  soft  sensations 
Which  we  restrain  in  near  relations. 
Lest  future  husbands  should  be  jealous. 
And  think  their  wives  too  fond  of  fellows. 

The  morning  sun  beheld  her  rove, 
A  nymph,  or  goddess  of  the  grove  ; 
At  eve  she  paced  the  dewy  lawn, 
And  called  each  clown  she  saw  a  faun ; 
Then,  scudding  homeward,  locked  her  door, 
And  turned  some  copious  volume  o'er. 
For  much  she  read ;  and  chiefly  those 
Great  authors  who  in  verse  or  prose,  _, 
Or  something  betwixt  both,  unwind 
The  secret  springs  which  move  the  mind. 
These  much  she  resd  ;  and  thought  she  knew 
The  human  heart's  minutest  clue  ; 
Yet  shrewd  observers  still  declare 
(To  show  how  shrewd  observers  are), 
Though  plays  which  breathed  heroic  flame, 
And  novels  in  profusion,  came. 
Imported  fresh -and-fresh  from  France, 
She  only  read  the  heart's  romance. 

The  world,  no  doubt,  was  well  enough 
To  smooth  the  manners  of  the  rough; 
Might  please  the  giddy  and  the  vain. 
Those  tinselled  slaves  of  folly's  train  : 
But,  for  her  part,  the  truest  taste 
She  found  was  in  retirement  placed, 
Where,  as  in  verse  it  sweetly  flows, 
"  On  every  thorn  instruction  grows." 

Not  that  she  wished  to  "be  alone," 
As  some  affected  prudes  have  done ; 
She  knew  it  was  decreed  on  high 
We  should  "increase  and  multiply;"' 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD.  213 

And  therefore,  if  kind  Fate  would  grant 
Her  fondest  wish,  her  only  want, 
A  cottage  with  the  man  she  loved 
Was  wliat  her  gentle  heart  approved ; 
In  some  delightfid  solitude 
Where  step  profane  might  ne'er  intrude, 
But  Hymen  guard  the  sacred  ground. 
And  virtuous  Cupids  hover  round. 
Not  such  as  flutter  on  a  fan 
Round  Crete's  vile  bull,  or  Leda's  swan 
(Who  scatter  myrtles,  scatter  roses, 
And  hold  their  fingers  to  their  noses), 
But  simpering,  mild,  and  innocent, 
As  angels  on  a  monument. 

Fate  heard  her  prayer:  a  lover  came, 
Who  felt,  like  her,  the  innoxious  flame  ; 
One  who  had  trod,  as  well  as  she, 
The  flowery  paths  of  poesy; 
Had  warmed  himself  with  Milton's  heat. 
Could  every  line  of  Pope  repeat. 
Or  chant,  in  Shenstone's  tender  strains, 
"The  lover's  hopes,"  "the  lover's  pains." 

Attentive  to  the  charmer's  tongue. 
With  him  she  thought  no  evening  long; 
With  him  she  sauntered  half  the  day; 
And  sometimes,  in  a  laughing  way. 
Ran  o'er  the  catalogue  by  rote 
Of  who  might  marry,  and  who  not ; 
"  Consider,  sir,  we're  near  relations" — 
"  I  hope  so,  in  our  inclinations." — 
In  short,  she  looked,  she  blushed  consent ; 
He  grasped  her  hand,  to  church  they  went ; 
And  every  matron  that  was  there. 

With  tongue  so  voluble  and  supple. 
Said  for  her  part,  she  must  declare. 

She  never  saw  a  finer  couple. 
Oh  halcyon  days  !     'Twas  Nature's  reign, 
'Twas  Tcmpe's  vale,  and  Enna's  plain  ; 
The  fields  assumed  unusual  bloom, 
And  every  zephyr  breathed  perfume  ; 
The  laughing  sun  with  genial  beams 
Danced  lightly  on  the  exulting  streams  ; 
And  tiie  pale  regent  of  the  night 
In  dewy  softness  shed  delight. 
'Twas  transport  not  to  be  exi:)ressed ; 
'Twas  Paradise  ! — But  mark  the  rest. 

Two  smiling  springs  had  waked  the  flowers 
That  paint  the  meads,  or  fringe  the  bowers 


214  WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

(Ye  lovers,  lend  your  wondering  ears, 
Who  count  by  months,  and  not  by  years) : 
Two  smiling  springs  had  chaplets  wove 
To  crown  their  solitude  and  love  : 
When  lo,  they  find,  they  can't  tell  how, 
Their  walks  are  not  so  pleasant  now. 
The  seasons  sure  were  changed ;  the  place 
Had,  somehow,  got  a  different  face. 
Some  blast  had  struck  the  cheerful  scene  ; 
The  lawns,  the  woods,  were  not  so  green. 
The  purling  rill  which  murmured  by, 
And  once  was  liquid  harmony, 
Became  a  sluggish  reedy  pool  : 
The  days  grew  hot,  the  evenings  cool. 
The  moon,  with  ail  the  starry  reign, 
Were  melancholy's  silent  train. 
And  then  the  tedious  winter  night — 
They  could  not  read  by  candle-light. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  why  they  did. 
They  called  in  adventitious  aid. 
A  faithful,  favourite  dog  ('twas  thus 
With  Tobit  and  Telemachus) 
Amused  their  steps  ;  and  for  a  while 
They  viewed  his  gambols  with  a  smile. 
The  kitten  too  was  comical, — 
She  played  so  oddly  with  her  tail, 
Or  in  the  glass  was  pleased  to  find 
Another  cat,  and  peeped  behind. 

A  courteous  neighbour  at  the  door 
Was  deemed  intrusive  noise  no  more  : 
For  rural  visits,  now  and  then, 
Are  right,  as  men  must  live  with  men. 
Then  cousin  Jenny,  fresh  from  town, 

A  new  recruit,  a  dear  delight. 
Made  many  a  heavy  hour  go  down. 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  eve,  at  night : 
Sure  they  couJd  hear  her  jokes  for  ever, 
She  was  so  sprightly  and  so  clever ! 

Yet  neighbours  were  not  quite  the  thing  ; 
WHiat  joy,  alas  !  could  converse  bring 
With  awkward  creatures  bred  at  home  ? — 
The  dog  grew  dull,  or  troublesome  ; 
The  cat  had  spoiled  the  kitten's  merit. 
And,  with  her  youth,  had  lost  her  spirit ; 
And  jokes  repeated  o'er  and  o'er 
Had  quite  exhausted  Jenny's  store. 
—  "And  then,  my  dear,  I  can't  abide 
This  always  sauntering  side  by  side." 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD.  215 


"  Enough  !"  he  cries,  "the  reason's  plain  : 

For  causes  never  rack  your  brain. 

Our  neighbours  are  like  other  folks. 

Skip's  playful  tricks,  and  Jenny's  jokes, 

Are  still  delightful,  still  would  please, 

Were  we,  my  dear,  ourselves  at  ease. 

Look  round,  with  an  impartial  eye, 

On  yonder  fields,  on  yonder  sky; 

The  azure  cope,  the  flowers  below, 

With  all  their  wonted  colours  glow. 

The  rill  still  murmurs  ;  and  the  moon 

Shines,  as  she  did,  a  softer  sun. 

No  change  has  made  the  seasons  fail, 

No  comet  bruslied  us  with  his  tail. 

The  scene's  the  same,  the  same  the  weather— 

We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  together." 

Agreed.     A  rich  old  uncle  dies, 
And  added  wealth  the  means  supplies. 
With  eager  haste  to  town  they  flew, 
Where  all  must  please,  for  all  was  new. 

But  here,  by  strict  poetic  laws, 
Description  claims  its  proper  pause. 

The  rosy  mom  had  raised  her  head 
From  old  Tithonus'  saffron  bed ; 
And  embryo  sunbeams  from  the  east. 
Half-choked,  were  struggling  through  the  mist. 
When  forth  advanced  the  gilded  chaise  ; 
The  village  crowded  round  to  gaze. 
The  pert  postilion,  now  promoted 
From  driving  plough,  and  neatly  booted, 
His  jacket,  cap,  and  baldric  on, 
(As  greater  folks  than  he  have  done) 
Looked  round  ;  and,  with  a  coxcomb  air. 
Smacked  loud  his  lash.     The  happy  pair 
Bowed  graceful,  from  a  separate  door, 
And  Jenny,  from  the  stool  before. 

Roll  swift,  ye  wheels  !     To  willing  eyes 
New  objects  every  moment  rise. 
Each  carriage  passing  on  the  road, 
From  the  broad  waggon's  ponderous  load 
To  the  light  car  where  mounted  high 
The  giddy  driver  seems  to  fly, 
W^cre  themes  for  harmless  satire  fit. 
And  gave  fresh  force  to  Jenny's  wit. 
Whate'er  occurred,  'twas  all  delightful, 
No  noise  was  harsh,  no  danger  frightful. 
The  dash  and  splash  through  thick  and  thin, 
The  hairbreadth  'scapes,  the  Inistling  inn 


2i6  WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


(Where  well-bred  landlords  were  so  ready 
To  welcome  in  the  squire  and  lady), 
Dirt,  dust,  and  sun,  they  bore  with  ease. 
Determined  to  be  pleased,  and  please. 

Now  nearer  town,  and  all  agog. 
They  know  dear  London  by  its  fog. 
Bridges  they  cross,  through  lanes  they  wind, 
Leave  Hounslow's  dangerous  heath  behind, ' 
Through  Brentford  win  a  passage  free 
By  roaring  "Wilkes  and  Liberty  !" 
At  Knightsbridge  bless  the  shortening  way, 
Where  Bays's  troops  in  ambush  lay. 
O'er  Piccadilly's  pavement  glide, 
"With  palaces  to  grace  its  side, 
Till  Bond  Street  with  its  lamps  ablaze 
Concludes  the  journey  of  three  days. 

"Why  should  we  paint,  in  tedious  song. 
How  every  day,  and  all  day  long. 
They  drove  at  first  with  curious  haste 
Through  Lud's  vast  town;  or,  as  they  passed 
'Midst  risings,  fallings,  and  repairs, 
Of  streets  on  streets  and  squares  on  squares. 
Describe  how  strong  their  wonder  grew 
At  buildings — and  at  builders  too  ? 

Scarce  less  astonishment  arose 
At  architects  more  fair  than  those — 
/Who  built  as  high,  as  widely  spread. 
The  enormous  loads  that  clothed  their  head. 
For  British  dames  new  follies  love, 
And,  if  they  can't  invent,  improve. 
Some  with  erect  pagodas  vie. 
Some  nod,  like  Pisa's  tower,  awry. 
Medusa's  snakes,  with  Pallas'  crest. 
Convolved,  contorted,  and  compressed, 
,"With  intermmgling  trees  and  flowers. 
And  corn  and  grass  and  shepherds'  bowers, 
Stage  above  stage  the  turrets  run. 
Like  pendent  groves  of  Babylon, 
Till  nodding  from  the  topmost  wall 
Otranto's  plumes  envelop  all  : 
Whilst  the  black  ewes  who  owned  the* hair 
Feed  harmless  on,  in  pastures  fair, 
"Unconscious  that  their  tails  perfume. 
In  scented  curls,  the  drawing-room. 

When  Night  her  murky  pinions  spread, 
And  sober  folks  retire  to  bed, 
To  every  public  place  they  fiew. 
Where  Jenny  told  them  who  was  Avho. 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD.  217 


Money  was  always  at  command, 

And  tripped  with  Pleasure  hand  in  hand. 

Money  was  equipage,  was  show, 

Gallini's,  Almack's,  and  Soho  ; 

The  passe-partout  through  every  vein 

Of  dissipation's  hydra  reign. 

0  London,  thou  prolific  source. 
Parent  of  vice,  and  folly's  nurse  ! 
Fruitful  as  Nile,  thy  copious  springs 
Spawn  hom-ly  births— and  all  with  stings  : 
But  happiest  far  the  he  or  she, 

1  know  not  which,  that  livelier  dunce 
Who  first  contrived  the  coterie. 

To  crush  domestic  bliss  at  once, — 
Then  gi-inned,  no  doubt,  amidst  the  dames, 
As  Nero  fiddled  to  the  flames. 

Of  thee,  Pantheon,  let  me  speak 
With  reverence,  though  in  numbers  weak ; 
Thy  beauties  satire's  frown  beguile,— 
We  spare  the  follies  for  the  pile. 
Flounced,  furbelowed,  and  tricked  for  show, 
With  lamps  above  and  lamps  below, 
Thy  charms  even  modern  taste  defied, 
They  could  not  spoil  thee,  though  they  tried'. 
Ah  pity  that  Time's  hasty  wings 
Must  sweep  thee  off  with  vulgar  things  ! 
Let  architects  of  humbler  name 
On  frail  materials  build  their  fame  ; 
Their  noblest  works  the  world  might  want  ; 
Wyatt  should  build  in  adamant. 

But  what  are  these  to  scenes  which  lie 
Secreted  from  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  baffle  all  the  powers  of  song? — 
A  brazen  throat,  an  iron -tongue 
(Which  poets  wish  for,  when  at  length 
Their  subject  soars  above  their  strength), 
Would  shun  the  task.     Our  humbler  Muse, 
Who  only  reads  the  public  news, 
And  idly  utters  what  she  gleans 
From  chronicles  and  magazines, 
Recoiling  feels  her  feeble  fires, 
And  blushing  to  her  shades  retires. 
Alas  !  she  knows  not  how  to  treat 
The  finer  follies  of  the  great, 
Where  even,  Democritus,  thy  sneer 
Were  vain  as  Hcraclitus'  tear. 

Suffice  it  that  by  just  degrees 
They  reached  all  heights,  and  rose  with  ease ; 


2i8  WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

For  beauty  wins  its  way,  uncalled, 
And  ready  dupes  are  ne'er  black-balled. 
Each  gambling  dame  she  knew,  and  he 
Knew  every  shark  of  quality; 
From  the  grave  cautious  few  who  live 
On  thoughtless  youth,  and  living  thrive, 
To  the  light  train  who  mimic  France, 
And  the  soft  sons  of  nonchalance. 
While  Jenny,  now  no  more  of  use, 
Excuse  succeeding  to  excuse, 
Grew  piqued,  and  prudently  withdrew 
To  shilling  whist  and  chicken  loo. 

Advanced  to  fashion's  wavering  head. 
They  now,  where  once  they  followed,  led; 
Devised  new  systems  of  delight. 
Abed  all  day,  and  up  all  night, 
In  different  circles  reigned  supreme. 
Wives  copied  her,  and  husbands  him  ; 
Till  so  divinely  life  ran  on, 
So  separate,  so  quite  bon-ton, 
That,  meeting  in  a  public  place, 
They  scarcely  knew  each  other's  face. 

At  last  they  met,  by  his  desire, 
A  tt'te-a-tete  across  the  fire  ; 
Looked  in  each  other's  face  awhile. 
With  half  a  tear,  and  half  a'smile. 
The  ruddy  health,  which  wont  to  grace 
AVith  manly  glow  his  rural  face. 
Now  scarce  retained  its  faintest  streak  ; 
So  sallow  was  his  leathern  cheek. 
She,  lank  and  pale  and  hollow-eyed. 
With  rouge  had  striven  in  vain  to  hide 
What  once  was  beauty,  and  repair 
The  rapine  of  the  midnight  air. 

Silence  is  eloquence,  'tis  said. 
Both  wished  to  speak,  both  hung  the  head. 

At  length  it  bu-rst. "  'Tis  time,"  he  cries, 

"  When  tired  of  folly,  to  be  wise. 

Are  you  too  tired?" — then  checked  a  groan. 

Sh«  wept  consent,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  How  delicate  the  married  life  ! 
You  love  your  husband,  I  my  wife. 
Not  even  satiety  could  tame. 
Nor  dissipation  quench,  the  flame. 
True  to  the  bias  of  our  kind, 
'Tis  happiness  we  wish  to  find. 
In  rural  scenes  retired  we  sought 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD.  219 

In  vain  the  dear  delicious  draught ; 

Though  blest  with  love's  indulgent  store, 

We  found  we  wanted  sometliing  more. 

'Twas  company,  'twas  friends  to  share 

The  bliss  we  languished  to  declare. 

'Twas  social  converse,  change  of  scene, 

To  soothe  the  sullen  hour  of  spleen ; 

Short  absences  to  wake  desire. 

And  sweet  regrets  to  fan  the  fire. 

We  left  the  lonesome  place  ;  and  found, 

In  dissipation's  giddy  round, 

A  thousand  novelties  to  wake 

The  springs  of  life,  and  not  to  break. 

As,  from  the  nest  not  wandering  far. 

In  light  e.xcursions  through  the  air, 

The  feathered  tenants  of  the  grove 

Around  in  mazy  circles  move, 

Sip  the  cool  springs  that  murmuring  flow. 

Or  taste  the  blossom  on  the  bough,  — 

We  sported  freely  with  the  rest  j 

And  still,  returning  to  the  nest, 

In  easy  mirth  we  chatted  o'er 

The  trifles  of  the  day  before. 

Behold  us  now,  dissolving  quite 

In  the  full  ocean  of  delight. 

In  pleasures  every  hour  employ. 

Immersed  in  all  the  world  calls  joy ; 

Our  affluence  easing  the  expense 

Of  splendour  and  magnificence  ; 

Our  company,  the  exalted  set 

Of  all  that's  gay,  and  all  that's  great : 

Nor  happy  yet  ! — and  where's  the  wonder?— 

We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  asunder." 

The  moral  of  my  tale  is  this, — 
Variety's  the  soul  of  bliss  ; 
But  such  variety  alone 
As  makes  our  home  the  more  our  own. 
As  from  the  heart's  imjiclling  power 
The  life-blood  pours  its  genial  store  ; 
Though  taking  each  a  various  way. 
The  active  streams  meandering  play 
Through  every  artery,  every  vein. 
All  to  the  heart  return  again ; 
From  thence  resume  their  new  career, 
But  still  return  and  centre  there  : 
So  real  happiness  below 
Must  from  the  heart  sincerely  flow  ; 
Nor,  listening  to  the  siren's  song, 
Must  stray  too  far,  or  rest  too  long. 


220  GRA  Y. 


All  human  pleasures  thithei"  tend  ; 
Must  there  begin,  and  there  must  end  ; 
Must  there  recruit  their  languid  force, 
And  gain  fresh  vigour  from  their  source. 


THOMAS  GRAY. 

[Born  in  London,  26  November  1716,  son  of  a  scrivener;  died  at  Cambridge, 
13  July  1771]. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVOURITE  CAT, 

DROWNED  IN  A  TUB  OF  GOLD-FISHES. 

'TwAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  ajt  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind. 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  ; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard. 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes. 

She  saw,  and  purred  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but,  'midst  the  tide, 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 

The  Genii  of  the  stream  :  l 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue. 
Through  richest  purple,  to  the  view 

Betrayed  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw  : 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw. 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize  : 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  Cat's  averse  to  fish  ? 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent, 
Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between. 
Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled  : 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled  ; 

She  stumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood, 
She  mewed  to  every  ^\'atery  god 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirred, 
Nor  cruel  Tom  or  Susan  heard  : 

A  favourite  has  no  friend  ! 


BISHOP  BARNARD.  221 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties  !  undeceived, 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 

And  be  with  caution  bold  : 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts  is  lawful  prize. 

Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold. 


BISHOP  (WILLIAM)  BARNARD. 

'  [William  Barnard,  Bishop  of  Limerick,  was  born  in  1727,  and  died  in  1806. 
The  verses  which  ensue  arose  from  the  following  incident.  "  Dr.  Barnard  had 
asserted,  in  Dr.  Johnson's  presence,  that  men  did  not  improve  after  the  age  of 
forty-five.  'That  is  not  true,  Sir,'said  Johnson.  'You,  whopeihapsare  forty- 
eight,  may  still  improve,  if  you  will  try  :  I  wish  you  would  set  about  it.  And 
I  am  afraid,'  he  added,  '  there  is  great  room  for  it.'"  Johnson  afterwards  greatly 
regretted  his  rudeness  to  the  Bishop ;  who  took  the  insult  ui  good  part,  wrote 
the  following  verses  next  day,  and  sent  them  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds]. 

VERSES. 

I  LATELY  thought  no  man  alive 
Could  e'er  improve  past  forty-five. 

And  ventured  to  assert  it. 
The  observation  was  not  new. 
But  seemed  to  me  so  just  and  true 

That  none  could  controvert  it. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "  'tis  not  so  ; 
'Tis  your  mistake,  and  I  can  show 

An  instance,  if  you  doubt  it. 
You,  who  perhaps  are  forty-eight. 
May  still  improve,  'tis  not  too  late  ; 

I  wish  you'd  set  about  it." 

Encouraged  thus  to  mend  my  faults, 
I  turned  his  counsel  in  my  thoughts, 

Which  way  I  could  apply  it  ', 
Genius  I  knew  was  past  my  reach. 
For  who  can  learn  what  none  can  teach  ? 

And  wit — I  could  not  buy  it. 

Then  come,  my  friends,  and  try  your  skill ; 
You  may  improve  me  if  you  will 

(My  books  are  at  a  distance)  : 
With  you  I'll  live  and  learn,  and  then 
Instead  of  books  I  shall  read  men. 

So  lend  me  your  assistance. 

Dear  Knight  of  Flympton,  teach  me  how 
To  suffer  with  unclouded  brow, 

And  .smile  serene  as  thine, 
The  jest  uncouth  and  truth  severe  ; 
Like  ihee  to  turn  my  deafest  car. 

And  calmly  drink  my  wiuc. 


THOMAS  WAR  TON  (JUXR.) 


Thou  say'st  not  only  skill  is  gained, 
But  genius,  too,  may  be  attained, 

By  studious  imitation ; 
Thy  temper  mild,  thy  genius  fine, 
I'll  study  till  I  make  them  mine 

By  constant  meditation. 

The  art  of  pleasing  teach  me,  Garrick, 
Thou  who  reversest  odes  Pindaric 

A  second  time  read  o'er  ; 
Oh  could  we  read  thee  backwards  too. 
Last  thirty  years  thou  shouldst  review. 

And  charm  us  thirty  more. 

If  I  have  thoughts  and  can't  express  'em. 
Gibbon  shall  teach  me  how  to  dress  'em 

In  terms  select  and  terse  ; 
Jones,  teach  me  modesty  and  Greek  ; 
Smith,  how  to  think  ;  Burke,  how  to  speak 

And  Beauclerk,  to  converse. 

Let  Johnson  teach  me  how  to  place 
In  fairest  light  each  borrowed  grace. 

From  him  I'll  learn  to  write  : 
Copy  his  free  and  easy  style, 
And,  from  the  roughness  of  his  file, 

Grow,  like  himself,  polite. 


THOMAS  WARTON  (JUNR.) 

[Born  at  Basingstoke  in  1728  ;  died  in  Oxford  in  1790.  Celebrated  as  the 
author  of  the  History  of  English  Poetry.  He  took  holy  orders  ;  and  held  the 
appointipent  of  Professor  of  Poetry  in  Oxford,  and  afterwards  of  Camden  Pro- 
fessor of  History,  and  succeeded  Whitehead  as  Poet  Laureate,  1785]. 

THE   PROGRESS  OF  DISCONTENT. 

When,  now  mature  in  classic  knowledge, 

The  joyful  youth  is  sent  to  college, 

His  father  comes,  a  vicar  plain, 

At  Oxford  bred  in  Anna's  reign, 

And  thus,  in  form  of  humble  suitor. 

Bowing  accosts  a  reverend  tutor  : 

"Sir,  I'm  a  Glostershire  divine. 

And  this  my  eldest  son  of  nine. 

My  wife's  ambition  and  my  own 

Was  that  this  child  should  wear  a  gownl 

I'll  warrant  that  his  good  behaviour 

Will  justify  your  future  favour  ; 

And,  for  his  parts,  to  tell  the  truth, 

My  son's  a  very  forward  youth  ; 

Has  Horace  all  by  heart — you'd  wonder — ■ 

And  mouths  out  Homer's  Greek  like  thunder. 


THOMAS  WARTON  (JUNK).  2*2 


If  you'd  examine  and  admit  him, 
A  scholarship  would  nicely  fit  him  ; 
That  he  succeeds,  'tis  ten  to  one  ; 
Your  vote  and  interest,  Sir  ! " — 'Tis  done. 

Our  pupil's  hopes,  though  twice  defeated, 
.  Are  with  a  scholarship  completed  : 
A  scholarship  but  half  maintains, 
And  college  rules  are  heavy  chains  : 
In  garret  dark  he  smokes  and  puns, 
A  prey  to  discipline  and  duns  ; 
And,  now  intent  on  new  designs, 
Sighs  for  a  fellowship — and  fines. 

When  nine  full  tedious  winters  passed. 
That  utmost  wish  is  crowned  at  last  : 
But,  the  rich  prize  no  sooner  got. 
Again  he  quarrels  with  his  lot  : 
'■These  fellowships  are  pretty  things,— 
We  live  indeed  like  petty  kings  : 
But  who  can  bear  to  waste  his  whole  age 
Amid  the  dulness  of  a  college, 
DebaiTcd  the  common  joys  of  life, 
And  that  prime  bliss,  a  loving  wife  ? 
Oh  !  what's  a  table  richly  spread. 
Without  a  woman  at  its  head  ? 
Would  some  snug  benefice  but  fall. 
Ye  feasts,  ye  dinners  !  farewell  all  ! 
To  offices  I'd  bid  adieu. 
Of  Dean,  Vice-Proes, — of  Bursar  too  ; 
Come,  joys  that  rural  quiet  yields, 
Come,  tithes,  and  house,  and  fruitful  fields  !  " 

Too  fond  of  freedom  and  of  ease 
A  patron's  vanity  to  please, 
Long  time  he  watches,  and  by  stealth. 
Each  frail  incumbent's  doubtful  health. 
At  length,  and  in  his  fortieth  year, 
A  living  drops — two  hundred  clear  ! 
With  breast  elate  beyond  expression, 
He  hurries  down  to  take  possession, 
With  raptures  views  the  sweet  retreat. 
"What  a  convenient  house  !  how  neat  ! 
For  fuel  here's  sufticient  wood  : 
Pray  God  the  cellars  may  be  good  ! 
The  garden — tliat  must  be  new  planned — 
Shall  these  old-fashioned  yew-trees  stand  ? 
O'er  yonder  vacant  plot  shall  rise 
The  flowery  shrub  of  thousand  dyes  : — 
Yon  wall,  that  feels  the  soutlicrn  ray, 
Shall  bhibh  with  ruddy  fruitage  gay  : 


224  THOMAS  WARTON  {JUNR.) 

While  thick  beneath  its  aspect  warm 

O'er  well-ranged  hives  the  bees  shall  swarm, 

From  which,  ere  long,  of  golden  gleam 

Metheglin's  luscious  juice  shall  stream. 

This  awkward  hut,  o'ergrown  with  ivy, 

We'll  alter  to  a  modern  privy. 

Up  yon  green  slope  of  hazels  trim, 

An  avenue  so  cool  and  dim 

Shall  to  an  arbour  at  the  end, 

In  spite  of  gout,  entice  a  friend. 

My  predecessor  loved  devotion — 

But  of  a  garden  had  no  notion." 

Continuing  this  fantastic  farce  on. 
He  now  commences  country  parson. 
To  make  his  character  entire. 
He  weds  a  cousin  of  the  squire  : 
Not  over-weighty  in  the  purse, 
But  many  doctors  have  done  worse  : 
And,  though  she  boasts  no  charms  divine. 
Yet  she  can  carve  and  make  birch  wine. 

Thus  fixed,  content  he  taps  his  barrel, 
Exhorts  his  neighbours  not  to  quarrel ; 
Finds  his  churchwardens  have  discerning 
Both  in  good  liquor  and  good  learning  ; 
With  tithes  his  barns  replete  he  sees. 
And  chuckles  o'er  his  surplice-fees  ; 
Studies  to  find  out  latent  dues, 
And  regulates  the  state  of  pews  ; 
Rides  a  sleek  mare  with  purple  housing. 
To  share  the  monthly  club's  carousing  ; 
Of  Oxford  pranks  facetious  tells. 
And — but  on  Sundays — hears  no  bells  ; 
Sends  presents  of  his  choicest  fruit, 
And  prunes  himself  each  sapless  shoot ; 
Plants  cauliflowers,  and  boasts  to  rear 
The  earliest  melons  of  the  year  ; 
Thinks  alteration  charming  work  is. 
Keeps  bantam  cocks,  and  feeds  his  turkeys  •, 
Builds  in  his  copse  a  favourite  bench. 
And  stores  th;  pond  with  carp  and  tench. 

But  ah  !  too  soon  his  thoughtless  breast 
By  cares  domestic  is  oppressed  ; 
And  a  third  butcher's  bill  and  brewing 
Threaten  inevitable  ruin  : 
For  children  fresh  expenses  get. 
And  Dicky  now  for  school  is  fit. 
"  Why  did  I  sell  my  college  life," 
lie  cries,  "for  benefice  and  wife? 


GOLDSMITH.  225 


Return,  ye  days  when  endless  pleasure 

I  found  in  reading,  or  in  leisure  ! 

When  calm  around  the  common  room 

I  puffed  my  daily  pipe's  perfume  ; 

Rode  for  a  stomach,    and  inspected, 

At  annual  bottlings,   corks  selected  : 

And  dined  untaxed,  untroubled,  under 

The  portrait  of  our  pious  Founder  ! 

When  impositions  were  supplied 

To  light  my  pipe  or  soothe  my  pride  ! 

No  cares  were  then  for  forward  peas, 

A  yearly-longing  wife  to  please  ; 

My  thoughts  no  christ'ning  dinners  crossed. 

No  children  cried  for  buttered  toast ; 

And  every  night  I  went  to  bed 

Without  a  modus  in  my  head  !  " 

Oh  !  trifling  head,  and  fickle  heart  ! 
Chagrined  at  whatsoe'er  thou  art ; 
A  dupe  to  follies  yet  untried. 
And  sick  of  pleasures,  scarce  enjoyed  ! 
Each  prize  possessed,  thy  transport  ceases, 
And  in  pursuit  alone  it  pleases. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

[Born  on  lotli  'November  1728,  at  Pallas,  Ireland,  son  of  a  clergyman  ;  died 
in  London,  4  April  1774]- 

DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  AUTHOR'S  BEDCHAMBER. 

Where  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay  ; 

Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parson's  black  champagne, 

Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane  ; 

There,  in  a  lonely  room,   from  bailiffs  snug. 

The  IVfuse  found  Scroggen  stretched  beneath  a  rug. 

A  window  patched  with  paper  lent  a  ray, 

That  dimly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay. 

The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread, 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread. 

The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view. 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew  ; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place. 

And  brave  Prince  William  showed  his  lamp-black  face. 

The  morn  was  cold.     He  views  with  keen  desire 

The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 

With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 

And  five  cracked  tea-cups  dressed  the  chimney-board  j 

A  night-cap  decked  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

A  cap  by  niglit— a  stocking  all  the  day. 

P 


226^  CHURCHILL. 


JOHN  CUNNINGHAM. 

[Born  in  Dublin  in  1729  ;  died  in  1773.     Was  an  actor  by  profession  ;  com- 
posed a  farce  named  Lozie  in  a  Misi,  and  various  miscellaneous  poems]. 

THE  FOX  AND  THE  CAT. 
The  fox  and  the  cat,  as  they  travelled  one  day, 
With  moral  discourses  cut  shorter  the  way. 
"  'Tis  great,"  says  the  Fox,  "to  make  justice  our  guicle  !  " 
"  How  god-like  is  mercy  ! "  Grimalkin  replied. 

Whilst  thus  they  proceeded,  a  wolf  from  the  wood, 
Impatient  of  hunger,  and  thirsting  for  blood, 
Rushed  forth — as  he  saw  the  dull  shepherd  asleep-^ 
And  seized  for  his  supper  an  innocent  sheep. 
"  In  vain,  wretched  victim,  for  mercy  you  bleat  ; 
When  mutton's  at  hand,"  says  the  wolf,  "I  must  eat." 

Grimalkin's  astonished — the  fox  stood  aghast — 
To  see  the  fell  I'east  at  his  bloody  repast. 
"  What  a  wretch  !"  says  the  cat,  "  'tis  the  vilest  of  brutes  ;: 
Does  he  feed  upon  flesh  when  there's  herbage  and  roots?" 
Cries  the  fox,  "While  our  oaks  give  us  acorns  so  good, 
W^hat  a  tyrant  is  this  to  spill  innocent  blood  ! " 

Well,  onward  they  marched,  and  they  moralized  still, 
Till  they  came  where  some  poultry  picked  chaff  by  a  milL 
Sly  Reynard  surveyed  them  with  gluttonous  eyes, 
And  made,  spite  of  morals,  a  pullet  his  prize. 
A  mouse,  too,  that-  chanced  from  her  covert  to  stray, 
The  greedy  Grimalkin  secured  as  her  prey. 

A  spider,  that  sat  in  her  web  on  the  wall, 
Perceived  the  poor  victims,  and  pitied  their  fall. 
She  cried,  "  Of  such  murders  how  guiltless  am  I  !" 
So  ran  to  regale  on  a  new-taken  fly. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 

[Born  in  London,  1731  ;  died  at  Boulogne,  4  November  1764.  He  entered- 
the  church,  with  very  few  qualifications  for  supporting  the  clerical  character. 
His  extreme  liking  for  the  theatre  prompted  his  first  published  poem.  The  Ros- 
ciad,  which  e.vxited  great  public  attention  and  applause. _  Another  popular 
topic,  the  English  prejudice  against  Scotchmen,  was  embodied  in  a  later  satire, 
The  Prophecy  of  Famine,  aScots  Pastoral.  Soon  afterwards  he  discarded  the 
clerical  habit ;  and  figured  as  a  strong  party-politician  on  the  sideof  Wilkes,  and 
as  a  man  of  pleasure.  It  was  in  visiting  Wilkes  in  France  that  he.  caught  the 
illness  whicl?  brought  him  to  an  early  grave.  Churchill  was  a  man  of  much 
generous  impulse  ;  and  the  reader  can  still  enjoy  the  vigour  of  many  passages 
in  his  poems,  although  their  obsolete  subject-matter,  combined  with  their' 
length,  is  a  bar  to  general  perusal  now-a-days.] 

THE  'JOURNEY. 
(a  fragment.) 
Some  of  my  friends  (for  friends  I  must  suppose 
All  who,  not  daring  to  appear  my  foes, 
Feign  great  good-will,  and,  not  more  full  of  spite 
Than  full  of  craft,  under  false  colours  fight) 


CHURCHILL.  227 

Some  of  my  friends  (so  lavishly  I  print) 
As  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  hint 
(Though  that  indeed  will  scarce  admit  a  doubt) 
That  I  shall  run  my  stock  of  genius  out, 
My  no  great  stock,  and,  publishing  so  fast, 
Must  needs  become  a  bankrupt  at  the  last. 

"  The  husbandman,  to  spare  a  thankful  soil, 
Which,  rich  in  disposition,  pays  his  toil 
More  than  a  hundredfold,  which  swells  his  store 
E'en  to  his  wish,  and  makes  his  barns  run  o'er, 
By  long  experience  taught,  who  teaches  best, 
Foregoes  his  hopes  awhile,  and  gives  it  rest. 
The  land,  allowed  its  losses  to  repair, 
Refreshed,  and  full  in  strength,  delights  to  wear 
A  second  youth,  and  to  the  farmei-'s  eyes 
Bids  richer  crops  and  double  harvests  rise. 
Nor  think  this  practice  to  the  earth  confined ; 
It  reaches  to  the  culture  of  the  mind. 
The  mind  of  man  craves  rest,  and  cannot  bear, 
Though  next  in  power  to  gods,  continual  care. 
Genius  himself  (nor  here  let  Genius  frown) 
Must,  to  ensure  his  vigour,  be  laid  down. 
And  fallowed  well  ;  had  Churchill  known  but  this, 
Which  the  most  slight  observer  scarce  could  miss. 
He  might  have  flourished  twenty  years,  or  more, 
Though  now  alas!  poor  man!  worn  out  in  four." 

Recovered  from  the  vanity  of  youth, 
I  feel,  alas  !   this  melancholy  truth, 
Thanks  to  each  cordial,  each  advising  friend  ; 
And  am,  if  not  too  late,  resolved  to  mend, — 
Resolved  to  give  some  respite  to  my  pen. 
Apply  myself  once  more  to  books  and  m.en. 
View  what  is  present,  what  is  past  review, 
And,  my  old  stock  exhausted,  lay-in  new. 
For  twice  six  moons  (let  winds,  turned  porters,  bear 
This  oath  to  heaven)  for  twice  six  moons  I  swear, 
No  Muse  shall  tempt  me  with  her  siren  lay, 
Nor  draw  me  from  improvement's  thorny  way. 
Verse  I  abjure,  nor  will  forgive  that  friend 
Who  in  my  hearing  shall  a  rhyme  commend. 

It  cannot  be  ! — Whether  I  will  or  no, 
Such  as  they  are,  my  thoughts  in  measure  flow. 
Convinced,  determined,  I  in  prose  begin  ; 
But,  ere  I  write  one  sentence,  verse  creeps  in, 
And  taints  me  through  and  through.    By  this  good  light! 
In  verse  I  talk  by  day,  I  dream  by  night ; 
If  now  and  then  I  curse,  my  curses  chime. 
Nor  can  I  pray  unless  I  pray  in  rhyme. 


228  CHURCHILL. 


E'en  now  I  err,  in  spite  of  common  sense, 
And  my  confession  doubles  my  offence. 

Rest  then,  my  friends — spare,  spare  your  precious  breath, 
And  be  your  slumbers  not  less  sound  than  death  ; 
Perturbed  spirits,  rest  !  nor  thus  appear 
To  waste  your  counsels  in  a  spendthrift's  ear. 
On  your  grave  lessons  I  cannot  subsist, 
Nor  e'en  in  verse  become  economist. 
Rest  then,  my  friends,  nor,  hateful  to  my  eyes, 
Let  envy,  in  the  shape  of  pity,  I'ise 
To  blast  me  ere  my  time  ;  with  patience  wait. 
'Tis  no  long  interval  :  propitious  fate 
Shall  glut  your  pride,  and  every  son  of  phlegm 
Find  ample  room  to  censure  and  condemn. 
Read  some  three-hundred  lines  (no  ea  y  task  ; 
But  probably  the  last  that  I  shall  ask), 
And  give  me  up  for  ever  ;  wait  one  hour, — 
Nay  not  so  much.      Revenge  is  in  your  power, 
And  ye  may  cry,  ere  Time  hath  turned  his  glass, 
"Lo!  what  we  prophesied  is  come  to  pass." 

Let  those  who  poetry  in  poems  claim 
Or  not  read  this,  or  only  read  to  blame  ; 
Let  -those  who  are  by  fiction's  charms  enslaved 
Return  me  thanks  for  half-a-crown  well-saved  ; 
Let  those  who  love  a  little  gall  in  rhyme 
Postpone  their  purchase  now,  and  call  next  time ; 
Let  those  who,  void  of  nature,  look  for  art,  / 

Take  up  their  money,  and  in  peace  depart ; 
Let  those  who  energy  of  diction  prize 
For  Billingsgate  quit  Flexney,  and  be  wise. 
Here  is  no  lie,  no  gall,  no  art,  no  force  ; 
Mean  are  the  words,  and  such  as  come  of  course  ; 
The  subject  not  less  simple  than  the  lay, — 
A  plain,  unlaboured  journey  of  a  day. 

Fnr  from  me  now  be  every  tuneful  maid; 
I  neither  ask  nor  can  receive  their  aid. 
Pegasus  turned  into  a  common  hack. 
Alone  I  jog,  and  keep  the  beaten  track ; 
Nor  would  I  have  the  sisters  of  the  hill 
Behold  their  bard  in  such  a  dishabille. 
Absent,  but  only  absent  for  a  time. 
Let  them  caress  some  dearer  son  of  rhyme  ; 
Let  them,  as  far  as  decency  permits, 
Without  suspicion,  play  the  fool  with  wits, 
'Gainst  fools  be  guarded  ;  'tis  a  certain  rule, — 
Wits  are  safe  things,  there's  danger  in  a  fool. 

Let  them,  though  modest.  Gray  more  modest  woo ; 
Let  them  with  Mason  bleat,  and  bray,  and  coo  ; 


CHURCHILL.  229 


Let  them  -with  Franklin,  proud  of  some  small  Greek, 

Make  Sophocles,  disguised,  in  English  speak  ; 

Let  them  with  Glover  o'er  Medea  doze  ; 

Let  them  with  Dodsley  wail  Cleone's  woes, 

Whilst  he,  fine  feeling  creature,  all  m  tears. 

Melts  as  they  melt,  and  weeps  with  weeping  peers  ; 

Let  them  with  simple  Whitehead,  taught  to  creep 

Silent  and  soft,  lay  Fontenelle  asleep  ; 

Let  them  with  Browne  contrive,  no  vulgar  trick, 

To  cure  the  dead,  and  make  the  living  sick  ; 

Let  them  in  charity  to  Murphy  give 

Some  old  French  piece,  that  he  may  steal  and  live ; 

Let  them  with  antic  Foote  subscriptions  get. 

And  advertise  a  summer-house  of  wit. 

Thus,  or  in  any  better  way  they  please. 
With  these  great  men,  or  with  great  men  like  these, 
Let  them  their  appetite  for  laughter  feed  ; 
I  on  my  journey  all  alone  proceed. 

If  fashionable  grown,  and  fond  of  power. 
With  humorous  Scots  let  them  disport  the  hour  ; 
Let  them  dance,  fairy-like,  round  Ossian's  tomb  ; 
Let  them  forge  lies  and  histories  for  Hume  ; 
Let  them  with  Home,  the  very  prince  of  verse. 
Make  something  like  a  tragedy  in  Erse  ; 
Under  dark  allegory's  flimsy  veil 
Let  them,  with  Ogilvie  spin  out  a  tale 
Of  rueful  length  ;  let  them  plain  things  obscure, 
Debase  what's  truly  rich,  and  what  is  poor 
Make  poorer  still  by  jargon  most  uncouth. 
With  every  pert  prim  prettiness  of  youth 
Born  of  false  taste,  with  fancy  (like  a  child 
Not  knowing  what  it  cries  for)  running  wild, 
With  bloated  style,  by  affectation  taught. 
With  much  false  colouring,  and  little  thought. 
With  phrases  strange,  and  dialect  decreed 
By  reason  never  to  have  passed  the  Tweed, 
With  words,  which  nature  meant  each  other's  foe. 
Forced  to  compound  whether  they  will  or  no, — 
With  such  materials,  let  them,  if  they  will. 
To  prove  at  once  their  pleasantry  and  skill, 
Build  up  a  bard  to  war  'gainst  common  sense. 
By  way  of  compliment  to  Providence. 
Let  them  with  Armstrong,  taking  leave  of  sense, 
Read  musty  lectures  on  benevolence. 
Or  con  the  pages  of  his  gaping  Day., 
Where  all  his  former  fame  was  thrown  away, 
Where  all  but  l>arren  labour  was  forgot, 
And  the  vain  stiffness  of  a  lettered  Scot. 


2  30  WOLCOT. 


Let  them  with  Armstrong  pass  the  term  of  light, 

But  not  one  hour  of  darkness.      When  the  night 

Suspends  this  mortal  coil,  when  memory  wakes, 

When  for  our  past  misdoings  conscitence  takes 

A  deep  revenge,  when,  by  reflection  led, 

She  draws  his  curtains,  and  looks  comfort  dead, 

Let  every  Muse  be  gone ;  in  vain  he  turns, 

And  tries  to  pray  for  sleep  ;  an  j^tna  burns, 

A  more  than  /Etna,  in  his  coward  breast, 

And  guilt,  with  vengeance  armed,  forbids  him  rest. 

Though  soft  as  plumage  from  young  Zephyr's  wing. 

His  couch  seems  hard,  and  no  relief  can  bring. 

Ingratitude  hath  planted  daggers  there 

No  good  man  can  deserve,  no  brave  man  bear. 

Thus,  or  in  any  better  way  they  please, 
With  these  great  men,  or  with  great  men  like 

these, 
Let  them  their  appetite  for  latlghter  feed  ; 
I  on  my  journey  all  alone  proceed. 


JOHN  WOLCOT. 

[Born  in  1738,  died  in  1S19  :  wrote  under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Peter  Pindar." 
Began  life  as  avn  apothecary  ;  took  his  degree  as  a  physician,  and  went  out  to 
Jamaica,  where  he  found  it  convenient  to  occupy  a  clerical  living,  and  so  took 
holy  orders.  He  afterwards  resumed  practice  as  a  physician  in  Cornwall  and 
Devonshire,  and  won  a  name  as  a  satirist — more  especially  in  matters  connected 
with  fine  art,  literature,  and  politics  :  Ije  had  himself  some  skill  as  a  draughts- 
man, and  more  especially  as  a  musician.  Wolcot  made  many  enemies  by  his 
pen,  and  his  general  character  was  that  of  a  selfish  man  :  at  the  same  time,  he 
gladly  fostered  merit  where  he  discerned  it,  and  had  friends  whose  good  opinion 
he  secured]. 

TO  A  FISH  OF  THE  [BROOKE.i 

Why  flyest  thou  away  with  fear  ? 

Trust  me,  there's  nought  of  danger  near  ; 

I  have  no  wicked  hooke 
All  covered  with  a  snaring  bait,. 
Alas,  to  tempt  thee  to  thy  fate. 

And  dragge  thee  from  the  brooke. 

0  harmless  tenant  of  the  flood, 

1  do  not  wish  to  spill  thy  blood. 

For  Nature  unto  thee 
Perchance  hath  given  a  tender  wife. 
And  children  dear,  to  charm  thy  life» 

As  .she  hath  done  for  me. 


1  The  reader  will  understand  the  antiquated  spelling  to  be   a  "take-off"  of 
Walton. 


WOLCOT.  -231 


Enjoy  thy  stream,  O  harmless  fish ; 
And,  when  an  angler  for  his  dish, 
Through  gluttony's  vile  sin, 
Attempts,  a  wretch,  to  pull  thee  on f, 
God  give  thee  strength,  O  gentle  trout, 
To  pull  the  raskall  /«  / 


THE  PILGRIMS  AND  THE  PEAS- 
.A  TRACE  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 

Were  ordered  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine, 
Who  at  Loreto  dwelt,  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 

And  in  a  fair  wiiite  wig  looked  wondrous  fine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  those  sad  rogues  to  travel, 

With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than  gravel ', 

In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse. 

The  priest  had  ordered  peas  into  their  shoes  : 

A  nosti"um,  famous  in  old  Popish  times, 
For  purifying  souls  that  stmik  with  crimes  ; 

A  sort  of  apostolic  salt, 
That  Popish  parsons  for  its  power  exalt 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet, 
Just  as  our  kitchen-salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray. 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I  wot  : 
One  of  the  sinners  galloped  on. 
Light  a£  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 

The  other  limped  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

One  saw  the  Virgin  soon — ■"  fercavi"  cried — 

Had  his  soul  whitewashed  all  so  clever  ; 
Then  home  again  he  nimbly  hied. 

Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live  for  ever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 
He  met  his  brother-rogue  about  halfway. 
Hobbling  with  outstretched  hams  and  bended  knees, 
Damning  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas  ; 
His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brow  in  sweat, 
Deep  sympathizing  with  his  groaning  feet. 

"How  now,"  the  light-toed,  white-washed  pilgrim  broke, 

"  You  lazy  lubber  ! " 
"  Odds  curse  it  !  "  cried  the  other,  "  'tis  no  joke  ; 
My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock. 

Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

"  Excuse  me.  Virgin  Mary,  that  I  swear  : 
As  for  Loreto,  I  shall  not  go  there  ; 
No  !  to  the  Devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go. 
For  hang  me  if  I  ha'n't  lost  every  toe! 


232.  WOLCOT. 


"But,  brother  sinner,  do  explain 
How  'tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain  ? 

Wliat  power  hath  worked  a  wonder  for  your  toes  ? 
Whilst  I,  just  like  a  snail,  am  crawling, 
Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling, 

Whilst  not  a  rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ! 

"  How  is't  that  yoii  can  like  a  greyhound  go, 

As  merry  as  if  nought  had  happened,  burn  ye  ?  " 
"Why,"  cried  the  other,  grinning,  "you  must  know 
That,  just  before  I  ventured  on  my  journey, 
To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease 
I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas, " 


THE  SAILOR-BOY  AT  PRAYERS. 
A  GREAT  Law  Chief  whom  God  nor  demon  scares. 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  pray,  who  swore  his  prayers  ; 

The  devil  behind  him  pleased  and  grinning, — 
Patting  the  angiy  lawyer  on  the  shoulder. 
Declaring  nought  was  ever  bolder, 

Admiring  such  a  novel  mode  of  sinning  : — 

Like  this,  a  subject  would  be  reckoned  rare, 
Which  proves  what  blood-game  infidels  can  dare  ; 
Which  to  my  memory  brings  a  fact. 
Which  nothing  but  an  English  tar  would  act. 

In  ships  of  war,  on  Sundays,  prayers  are  given  ; 
For,  though  so  wicked,  sailors  think  of  heaven. 

Particularly  in  a  storm  ; 
Where,  if  they  find  no  brandy  to  get  drunkj 
Their  souls  are  in  a  miserable  funk. 

Then  vow  they  to  the  Almighty  to  reform, 
If  in  his  goodness  only  once,  once  more, 
He'll  suffer  them  to  clap  a  foot  on  shore. 

In  calms,  indeed,  or  gentle  airs. 

They  ne'er  on  week-days  pester  Heaven  with  prayers  ;- 

For  'tis  amongst  the  Jacks  a  common  saying, 

"  Where  there's  no  danger,  there's  no  need  of  praying." 

One  Sunday  morning  all  were  met 

To  hear  the  parson  preach  and  pray ; 
All  but  a  boy,  who,  willing  to  forget 

That  prayers  were  handing  out,  had  stolen  away  ; 
And,  thinking  praying  but  a  useless  task, 
Had  crawled,  to  take  a  nap,  into  a  cask. 

The  boy  was  soon  found  missing,  and  full  soon 
The  boatswain's  cat  sagacious  smelt  him  out  ; 

Gave  him  a  clawing  to  some  tune — 

This  cat's  a  cousin-germane  to  the  knout. 


WOLCOT.  233 


*'  Come  out,  you  skulking  dog,"  the  boatswain  cried, 
"  And  save  your  damned  young  sinful  soul !" 

He  then  the  moral-mending  cat  applied, 

And  turned  him  like  a  badger  from  his  hole. 

Sulky  the  boy  marched  on,  and  did  not  mind  him, 
Although  the  boatswain  flogging  l<ept  behind  him  : 
"  Flog,"  cried  the  boy,  "  flog — curse  me,  flog  away  ! 
I'll  go— but  mind — God  damn  me  if  I'll  pray  ! " 


BOZZY  AND  PIOZZI ;  OR,  THE  BRITISH  BIOGRAPHERS. 

A  PAIR  OF  TOWN  ECLOGUES. 


The  Argument. 

On  the  death  of  Dr.  Johnson,  a  number  of  people,  ambitious  of  being  distin- 
guished from  the  mute  part  of  their  species,  set  about  relating  and  printing 
stories  and  bon-mots  of  that  celebrated  moralist. — Amongst  the  most  zealous, 
though  not  the  most  enlightened,  appeared  Mr.  Boswell  and  Madame  Piozzi, 
the  hero  and  heroine  of  our  Eclogues. — They  are  supposed  to  have  in  contem- 
plation the  Life  of  Johnson  :  and,  to  prove  their  biographical  abilities,  appeal  to 
Sir  John  Hawkins  for  his  decision  on  their  respective  merits,  by  quotations  from 
their  printed  anecdotes  of  the  Doctor.  — Sir  John  hears  them  with  uncommon 
patience,  and  determines  very  properly  on  the  pretensions  of  the  contending 
parties. 


Part  I. 


When  Johnson  sought  (as  Shakspeare  says)  that  bourn 

From  whence,  alas  !  no  travellers  return, — 

In  humbler  English,  when  the  Doctor  died, — 

Apollo  whimpered,  and  the  Muses  cried  ; 

Parnassus  moped  for  days,  in  business  slack. 

And  like  a  hearse  the  hill  was  hung  with  black. 

Minerva,  sighing  for  her  favourite  son, 

Pronounced,  with  lengthened  face,  the  world  undone  ; 

Her  owl,  too,  hooted  in  so  loud  a  style 

That  people  might  have  heard  the  bird  a  mile, 

Jove  wiped  his  eyes  so  red,  and  told  his  M'ife 

He  ne'er  made  Johnson's  equal  in  his  life  ; 

And  that  'twould  be  a  long  time  first,  if  ever, 

His  art  could  form  a  fellow  half  so  clever. 

Venus,  of  all  tlie  little  Loves  the  dam. 

With  all  the  Graces,  sobbed  for  brother  Sam  : 

Such  were  the  heavenly  bowlings  for  liis  deatli 

As  if  Dame  Nature  had  resigned  her  breath. 

Nor  less  sonorous  was  the  grief,  I  ween, 

Amidst  the  natives  of  our  earthly  scene  : 

From  beggars  to  the  great  who  hold  the  helm, 

One  Johnso-mania  raged  through  all  the  realm. 


234  WOLCOT. 


"Who"  (cried  the  world)  "  can  match  his  prose  or  rhyme  ? 
O'er  wits  of  modern  days  lie  towers  sublime  ! 
An  oak,  wide  spreading  o'er  the  shrubs  below, 
That  round  his  roots  with  puny  foliage  blow  ; 
A  pyramid,  amidst  some  barren  waste. 
That  frowns  o'er  huts,  the  sport  of  every  blast : 
A  mighty  Atlas,  whose  aspn-ing  head 
O'er  distant  regions  casts  an  awful  shade. 
By  knigs  and  vagabonds  his  tales  are  told, 
And  every  sentence  glows,  a  grain  of  gold  ! 
Blest  who  his  philosophic  phiz  can  take, 
Catch  even  his  weaknesses — his  noddle's  shake, 
The  lengthened  lip  of  scorn,  the  forehead's  scowl, 
The  louring  eye's  contempt  and  bear-like  growl  ! 
In  vain  the  critics  vent  their  toothless  rage  : 
Mere  sprats,  that  venture  war  with  whales  to  wage  ! 
Unmoved  he  stands,  and  feels  their  force  no  more 
Than  some  huge  rock  amidst  the  watery  roar. 
That  calmly  bears  the  tumults  of  the  deep, 
And  howling  tempests  that  as  well  might  sleep." 

Strong,  'midst  the  Rambler's  cronies,  was  the  rage 
To  fill,  with  Sam's  bon-mots  and  tales,  the  page  : 
Mere  flies,  that  buzzed  around  his  setting  ray, 
And  bore  a  splendour  on  their  wings  away. 
Thus  round  his  orb  the  pygmy  planets  run, 
And  catch  their  little  lustre  from  the  sun. 

At  length,  rushed  forth  two  candidates  for  fame, — 
A  Scotchman  one,  and  one  a  London  dame  : 
That,  by  the  emphatic  Johnson,  christened  Bozzy  ; 
This,  by  the  bishop's  license.  Dame  Piozzi ; 
"Whose  widowed  name,  by  topers  loved,  was  Tlirale, 
Bright  in  the  annals  of  election-ale  : 
A  name,  by  marriage,  that  gave  up  the  ghost, 
In  poor  Pedocchio  ^ — no,  Piozzi — lost  ! 
Each  seized,  with  ardour  wild,  the  grey  goose-quill : 
Each  sat,  to  work  the  intellectual  mill. 
That  pecks  of  bran  so  coarse  began  to  pour 
To  one  small  solitary  grain  of  flour. 

Forth  rushed  to  light  their  books — but  who  should  say 
Which  bore  the  jmlm  of  anecdote  away  ? 
This  to  decide,  the  rival  wits  agreed 
Before  Sir  John  their  tales  and  jokes  to  read  ; 
And  let  the  knight's  opinion  in  the  strife 
Declare  the  properest  pen  to  write  Sam's  life. 
Sir  John,  renowned  for  musical  ^  palavers — 

1  The  author  was  nearly  committing  a  blunder.  Fortunate  indeed  was  his 
recollection,  as  Pedocchio  signifies,  in  the  Italian  language,  that  most  con- 
temptible of  all  animals,  a  Ipuse.  2  vide  his  Hutory  of  Music,    a 


IVOLCOT.  23  ■; 


The  prince,  the  king,  the  emperor  of  quavers  ; 

Sharp  in  solfeggi,  as  the  sharpest  needle  ; 

Great  in  the  noble  art  of  tweedle-tweedle  ; 

Of  Music's  coliege  formed  to  be  a  fellow, 

Fit  for  Mus.  D.  or  Mastro  di  Capella  ; 

Whose  volume,  though  it  here  and  there  offends, 

Boasts  Gcniiati  tnerii — makes  by  bulk  amends. 

Superior,  frowning  o'er  octavo  wits, 

High-placed,  the  venerable  quarto  sits, — 

And  duodecimos,  ignoble  scum. 

Poor  prostitutes  to  every  vulgar  thumb, — 

Whilst,  undefiled  by  literary  rage, 

He  bears  a  spotless  leaf  from  age  to  age. 

Like  schoolboys,  lo  !  before  a  two-armed  chair 
That  held  the  knight  wise-judging,  stood  the  pair. 
Or  like  two  ponies  on  the  sporting-ground, 
Prepared  to  gallop  when  the  drum  should  sound, 
The  couple  ranged — for  victory  both  as  keen 
As  for  a  tottering  bishopric  a  dean. 
Or  patriot  Burke  for  giving  glorious  bastings 
To  that  intolerable  fellow  Hastings. 
Thus  with  their  songs  contended  Virgil's  swains, 
And  made  the  valleys  vocal  with  their  strains, 
Before  some  greybeard  swain,  whose  judgment  ripe 
Gave  goats  for  prizes  to  the  prettiest  pipe. 

"  Alternately  in  anecdotes  go  on  ; 
But  first  heg\\\ y oil,  madam,"  cried  Sir  John. — 
The  thankful  dame  low  curt'sied  to  the  chair, 
And  thus,  for  victory  panting,  read  the  Fair  : 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Sam  Johnson  was  of  Michael  Johnson  born, 
Whose  shop  of  books  did  Lichfield  town  adorn  : 
Wrong-headed,  stubborn  as  a  haltered  ram  ; 
In  short,  the  model  of  our  Hero  Sam  ; 
Inclined  to  madness,  too — for,  when  his  shop 
Fell  down,  for  want  of  cash  to  buy  a  prop. 
For  fear  the  thieves  might  steal  the  vanished  store, 
He  duly  went  each  night,  and  locked  the  door  ! 

BOZ7,Y. 

Whilst  Johnson  was  in  Edinl)urgh,  my  wife, 
To  please  his  palate,  studied  for  her  life  ; 
With  every  rarity  she  fdled  her  house, 
And  gave  the  doctor,  for  his  dinner,  grouse. 

MADAME  PIOZZI, 

Dear  Doctor  Johnson  was  in  size  an  ox  ; 
And  from  his  uncle  Andrew  learned  to  box, — 


2:16  IVOLCOT. 


A  man  to  wrestlers  and  to  bruisers  dear, 
Who  kept  the  ring  in  Smithfield  a  whole  year. 

BOZZY. 

At  suppei",  rose  a  dialogue  on  witches, 
When  Crosbie  said  there  could  not  be  such  bitches  ; 
And  that  'twas  blasphemy  to  think  such  hags 
Could  stir  up  storms,  and  on  their  broomstick  nags 
Gallop  along  the  air  with  wondrous  pace, 
And  boldly  fly  in  God  Almighty's  face. 
But  Johnson  answered  him,  "  There  might  be  witches- 
Nought  proved  the  non-existence  of  the  bitches," 

MADAME  PIOZZI 
When  Thrale,  as  nimble  as  a  boy  at  school, 
Jumped,  though  fatigued  with  hunting,  o'er  a  stool, 
The  Doctor,  proud  the  same  grand  feat  to  do. 
His  powers  exerted,  and  jumped  over  too. 
And,  though  he  might  a  broken  back  bewail, 
He  scorned  to  be  eclipsed  by  Mr.  Thrale. 

BOZZY. 

At  Ulinish,  our  friend,  to  pass  the  time, 
Regaled  us  with  his  knowledges  sublime  : 
Showed  that  all  sorts  of  learning  filled  his  nob, 
And  that  in  butchery  he  could  bear  a  bob. 
He  sagely  told  us  of  the  different  feat 
Employed  to  kill  the  animals  we  eat. 
"An  ox,"  says  he,  "in  covmtry  and  in  town, 
Is  by  the  butchers  constantly  knocked  down  ; 
As  for  that  lesser  animal,  a  calf. 
The  knock  is  really  not  so  strong  by  half ; 
The  beast  is  only  stunned  :  but,  as  for  goats, 
And  sheep,  and  lambs — the  butchers  cut  their  throats. 
Those  fellows  only  want  to  keep  them  quiet, 
Not  choosing  that  the  brutes  should  breed  a  not." 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 
When  Johnson  was  a  child,  and  swallowed  pap, 
'Twas  in  his  mother's  old  maid  Catharine's  lap. 
There,  whilst  he  sat,  he  took  in  wondrous  learning  ; 
For  much  his  bowels  were  for  knowledge  yearning  ; 
There  heard  the  story  which  we  Britons  brag  en, 
The  story  of  St.  George  and  eke  the  Dragon. 

BOZZY. 
When  Foote  his  leg  by  some  misfortune  broke, 
Says  I  to  Johnson,  all  by  way  of  joke, 
"Sam,  Sir,  in  Paragraph,  will  soon  be  clever. 
And  take  off  Peter  better  now  than  ever." 


WOLCOT.  237 


On  which,  says  Johnson,  without  hesitation, 
"George^  will  rejoice  at  P^oote's  depeditation." 
On  which,  says  I — a  penetrating  elf — ■ 
"Doctor,  I'm  sure  you  coined  that  word  yourself." 
On  which  he  laughed,  and  said  I  had  divined  it ; 
For,  bondjide,  he  had  really  coined  it. 
"And  yet,  of  all  the  words  I've  coined,"  says  he, 
"My  Dictionary,  Sir,  contains  but  three." 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

The  doctor  said,  in  literary  matters 
A  Frenchman  goes  not  deep — he  only  smatters  ; 
Then  asked,  what  could  be  hoped  for  from  the  dogs — 
Fellows  that  lived  eternally  on  frogs  ! 

BOZZY. 

In  grave  procession  to  St.  Leonard's  College, 
Well  stuffed  with  every  sort  of  useful  knowledge, 
We  stately  walked,  as  soon  as  supper  ended  : 
The  landlord  and  the  waiter  both  attended. 
The  landlord,  skilled  a  piece  of  grease  to  handle, 
Before  us  marched,  and  held  a  tallow  candle  : 
A  lantern  (some  famed  Scotsman  its  creator) 
W^ith  equal  grace  was  carried  by  the  waiter. 
Next  morning,  from  our  beds  we  took  a  leap, 
And  found  ourselves  much  better  for  our  sleep. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 
In  Lincolnshire,  a  lady  showed  our  friend 
A  grotto  that  she  wished  him  to  commend. 
Quoth  she,  "  How  cool,  in  summer,  this  abode  ! " 
"  Yes,  Madam,"  answered  Johnson,  "for  a  toad." 

BOZZY. 
Between  old  Scalpa's  rugged  isle  and  Rasay's, 
The  wind  was  vastly  boisterous  in  our  faces  : 
'Twas  glorious  Johnson's  figure  to  set  sight  on — 
High  in  the  boat,  he  looked  a  noble  Triton  ! 
But  lo  !  to  damp  our  pleasure  fate  concurs  ; 
For  Joe,  the  blockhead,  lost  his  master's  spurs. 
This  for  the  Rambler's  temper  was  a  rubber. 
Who  wondered  Joseph  could  be  such  a  lubber. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

I  asked  him  if  he  knocked  Tom  Osborn  -  down. 
As  such  a  tale  was  current  through  the  town  : — 
Says  I,  "Do  tell  me,  doctor,  what  befell." 
"  Why,  dearest  lady,  there  is  nought  to  tell  : 

1  George  Faulkner,  the  printer  at  Dublin,  taken  off  by  Foote,  under  the  cha 
racter  of  Peter  Paragraph.  *  Bookseller. 


238  WOLCOT. 


I  pondered  on  the  properest  mode  to  treat  liim — 
The  dog  was  impuolent,  and  so  I  beat  him. 
Tom,  like  a  fool,  proclaimed  his  fancied  wi^ongs  ; 
Others  that  I  belaboured  held  their  tongues." 

Did  any  one  that  he  was  "  happy  "  cry- 
Johnson  would  tell  him  plumply,  'twas  a  lie. 
A  lady  told  him  she  was  really  so  ; 
On  which  he  sternly  answered,  "INIadam,  no  ! 
Sickly  you  are,  and  ugly—  foolish,  poor  ; 
And  therefore  can't  be  happy,  1  am  sure. 
'Twould  make  a  fellow  hang  liimself,  whose  ear 
Were,  from  such  creatures,  forced  such  stuff  to  liear." 

BOZZY. 

Lo  !  when  we  landed  on  the  Isle  of  Mull, 
The  megrims  got  into  the  doctor's  skull  : 
With  such  bad  humours  he  began  to  fill 
I  thought  he  would  not  go  to  Icolmkill. 
But  lo  !  those  megrims  (wonderful  to  utter  !) 
Were  banished  all  by  tea  and  bread  and  butter  ! 

MADAME  riozzr. 

The  doctor  had  a  cat,  and  christened  Hodge, 
That  at  his  house  in  Fleet  Street  used  to  lodge. 
This  Hodge  grew  old  and  sick,  and  used  to  wish 
That  all  his  dinners  were  composed  of  fish. 
To  please  poor  Hodge,  the  doctor,  all  so  kind, 
Went  out,  and  bought  him  oysters  to  his  mind. 
This  every  day  he  did — nor  asked  black  Frank, ^ 
Who  deemed  himself  of  much  too  high  a  rank 
With  vulgar  fish-fags  to  be  forced  to  chat, 
And  purchase  oysters  for  a  mangy  cat. 

SIR  JOHN. 
For  God's  sake,  stay  each  anecdotic  scrap  ! 
Let  me  draw  breath,  and  take  a  trifling  nap. 
With  one  half-hour's  refreshing  slumber  blest, 
And  Heaven's  assistance,  I  may  hear  the  rest. 

Aside.1 — What  have  I  done,  inform  me,  gracious  Lord, 

That  thus  my  ears  with  nonsense  should  be  bored  ? 

Oh  !  if  I  do  not  in  the  trial  die, 

The  devil  and  all  his  brimstone  I  defy  ! 

No  punishment  in  other  worlds  I  fear  ; 

My  crimes  will  all  be  expiated  here. 

Ah  !  ten  times  happier  was  my  lot  of  yore, 

When,  raised  to  consequence  that  all  adore, 

I  sat,  each  session,  king-like,  in  the  chair, 

Awed  every  rank,  and  made  the  million  stare  : 

1  Hr.  Johnson's  servant. 


WOLCOT.  239 


Lord-paramount  o'er  every  justice  riding ; 
In  causes,  witli  a  Turkish  sway,  deciding  ! 
Yes,  like  a  noble  bashaw  of  three  tails, 
I  spread  a  fear  and  trembling  through  the  jails  ! 
Blest  have  I  browbeaten  each  thief  and  strumpet, 
And  blasted  on  them  like  the  last  day's  trumpet. 
I  know  no  paltry  weakness  of  the  soul — 
No  snivelling  pity  dares  my  deeds  control  : — 
Ashamed,  the  weakness  of  my  king  I  hear. 
Who,  childish,  drops  on  every  death  a  tear. 
Return,  return  again,  thou  glorious  hour 
That  to  my  grasp  once  gav'st  my  idol,  power  ; 
When,  at  my  feet,  the  humbled  knaves  would  fall ; 
The  thundering  Jupiter  of  Hicks's  Hall ! 

The  knight  thus  finishing  his  speech  so  fair, 
Sleep  pulled  him  gently  backwards  in  his  chair  ; 
Oped  wide  the  mouth  that  oft  on  jail-birds  swore  ; 
Then  raised  his  nasal  organ  to  a  roar 
That  actually  surpassed  in  tone  and  grace 
The  grumbled  ditties  of  his  favourite  bass.-^ 


Part  II, 


Now  from  his  sleep  the  knight,  affrighted,  sprung, 
Whilst  on  his  ear  the  words  of  Johnson  rung  ; 
For  lo  !  in  dreams,  the  surly  Rambler  rose. 
And,  wildly  staring,  seemed  a  man  of  woes. 

"Wake,  Hawkins,"  growled  the  doctor,  with  a  frown, 
"  And  knock  that  fellow  and  that  woman  down  ! 
Bid  them  with  Johnson's  life  proceed  no  further — ■ 
Enough  already  they  have  dealt  in  murther  ! 
Say  to  their  tales  that  little  truth  belongs  : 
If  fame  they  mean  me — bid  them  hold  their  tongues. 
In  vain  at  glory  gudgeon  Boswell  snaps  : 
His  mind's  a  paper-kite — composetl  of  scraps  ; 
Just  o'er  the  tops  of  chimneys  formed  to  fly, 
Not  with  a  wing  sublime  to  mount  the  sky. 
Say  to  the  dog  his  head's  a  downright  drum, 
Unequal  to  the  History  of  Tom  Thumb  : 
Nay,  tell  of  anecdote  that  thirsty  leech 
He  is  not  equal  to  a  Tyburn  speech. 
Yox  that  Piozzi's  wife,  Sir  John,  exhort  her 
To  draw  her  immortality  from  porter  ; 
Give  up  her  anecdotical  inditing, 
And  study  housewifery  instead  of  writing. 
Bid  her  a  poor  biography  suspend, 
Nor  crucify,  through  vanity,  a  friend. — 

1  The  violoncello,  on  which  the  knight  is  a  performer. 


240 


WOLCOT. 


I  know  no  business  women  have  with  learning  ; 
I  scorn,  I  hate,  the  mole-eyed,  half-discerning  : 
Their  wit  but  serves  a  husband's  heart  to  rack, 
And  make  eternal  horsewhips  for  his  back. — 
Tell  Peter  Pindar,  should  you  chance  to  meet  him, 
I  like  his  genius — should  be  glad  to  greet  him. 
Yet  let  him  know,  crowned  heads  are  sacred  things, 
And  bid  him  reverence  more  the  best  of  kings';-^ 
Still  on  his  Pegasus  continue  jogging. 
And  give  that  Boswell's  back  another  flogging." 

Such  was  the  dream  that  waked  the  sleepy  knight, 
And  oped  again  his  eyes  upon  the  light — 
Who,  mindless  of  old  Johnson  and  his  frown. 
And  stern  commands  to  knock  the  couple  down, 
Resolved  to  keep  the  peace — and,  in  a  tone 
Not  much  unlike  a  mastiff  o'er  a  bone. 
He  grumbled  that,  enabled  by  the  nap. 
He  now  could  meet  more  biographic  scrap. 
Then,  nodding  with  a  magistrate  air, 
To  further  anecdote  he  called  the  Fair. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Dear  Doctor  Johnson  loved  a  leg  of  pork. 
And  hearty  on  it  would  his  grinders  work  : 
He  liked  to  eat  it  so  much  overdone 
That  one  might  shake  the  flesh  from  off  the  bone. 
A  veal-pie  too,  with  sugar  crammed  and  plums. 
Was  wondrous  grateful  to  the  doctor's  gums. 
Though  used  from  mom  to  night  on  fruit  to  stuff, 
He  vowed  his  belly  never  had  enough. 

BOZzy. 

One  Thursday  morn  did  Doctor  Johnson  wake, 
And  call  out  "  Lanky  !   Lanky  !  "  by  mistake  ; 
But  recollecting—"  Bozzy  !   Bozzy  !  "  cried — 
For  in  contractions  Johnson  took  a  pride  ! 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Whene'er  our  friend  would  read  in  bed  by  night, 
Poor  Mr.  Thrale  and  I  were  in  a  fright ; 
For,  blinking  on  his  book,  too  near  the  flame, 
Lo  !  to  the  foretop  of  his  wig  it  came, — 
Burnt  all  the  hairs  away,  both  gieat  and  small, 
Down  to  the  very  netwoik,  named  the  cawl. 


1  This  is  a  strange  and  almost  incredible  speech  from  Johnson's  mouth  ;  as, 
not  many  years  ago,  when  the  age  of  a  certain  great  personage  became  the 
subject  of  debate,  the  doctor  broke  in  upon  the  conversation  with  the  lollowing 
question  :-"0f  what  importance  to  the  present  company  is  his  age?_  Of  what 
importance  would  it  have  been  to  the  world  if  he  had  never  existed?" 


wo L  COT.  24« 


BOZZY. 

At  Corrachatachin's,  in  hoggism  sunk, 
I  got  with  punch,  alas  !   confounded  drunk. 
Much  was  I  vexed  that  I  could  not  be  quiet, 
But  like  a  stupid  blockhead  breed  a  riot. 
I  scarcely  knew  how  'twas  I  reeled  to  bed. 
Next  morn  I  waked  with  dreadful  pains  of  head  8 
And  terrors  too  that  of  my  peace  did  rob  me — 
For  much  I  feared  the  Moralist  would  mob  me. 
But,  as  I  lay  along,  a  heavy  log, 
The  Doctor,  entering,  called  me  "drunken  dog." 
Then  up  rose  I,  with  apostolic  air, 
And  read  in  Dame  M'Kinnon's  book  of  prayer; 
In  hopes,  for  such  a  sin,  to  be  forgiven — 
And  make,  if  possible,  my  peace  with  Heaven. 
'Twas  strange  that  in  that  volume  of  divinity 
I  oped  the  Twentieth  Sunday  after  Trinity, 
And  read  these  words  : — •"  Pray,  be  not  drunk  with  wine, 
Since  drunkenness  doth  make  a  man  a  swine." 
"  Alas  !  "  says  I,   "the  sinner  that  I  am  !" 
And,  having  made  my  speech,  I  took  a  dram. 

MADAME  PIOZZI, 

One  day,  with  spirits  low  and  sorrow  filkd, 
I  told  him  I  had  got  a  cousin  killed. 
"My  dear,"  quoth  he,   "for  heaven's  sake,   hold  your 

canting  : 
Were  all  your  cousins  killed,  they'd  not  be  wanting. 
Though  Death  on  each  of  them  should  set  his  mark^— 
Though  e\'ery  one  were  spitted  like  a  lark, 
Roasted,  and  given  that  dog  there  for  a  meal — 
Tire  loss  of  them  the  world  would  never  feel. 
Trust  me,  dear  madam,  all  your  dear  relations 
Are  nits — are  nothings,  in  the  eye  of  nations." 

Again,  says  I  one  day,  "I  do  believe, 
A  good  acquaintance  that  I  have  will  grieve 
To  hear  her  friend  hath  lost  a  large  estate."  — 
"Yes,"  answered  he,  "lament  as  much  her  fate 
As  did  your  horse  (I  freely  will  allow) 
To  hear  of  the  miscarriage  of  your  cow." 

.  BOZZY. 

At  Enoch,  at  M'Queen's,  we  went  to  bed  ; 
A  coloured  handkerchief  wrapped  Johnson's  head  : 
He  said,  "God  bless  us  both— good  night !  "  and  then 
I,  like  a  parish  clerk,  pronounced  Amen  ! 
My  good  companion  soon  by  sleep  was  seized — 
But  I  by  lice  and  fleas  was  sadly  teazed  : 

Q 


242  WOLCOT. 


Methought  a  spider,  with  terrific  claws, 
Was  striding  from  the  wainscot  to  my  jaws. 
But  shnnber  soon  did  every  sense  entrap  ; 
And  so  I  sunk  into  the  sweetest  nap. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Travelling  in  Wales,  at  dinner-time  we  got  on 
Where,  at  Leweny,  lives  Sir  Robert  Cotton. 
At  table,  our  great  Moralist  to  please — 
Says  I,  "Dear  Doctor,  a'nt  these  charming  peas?" 
Quoth  he,  (to  contradict  and  riiit  his  rig) 
"  Madam,  they  possibly  might  please  a  pig." 

BOZZY. 

Of  thatching  well  the  Doctor  knew  the  art, 
And  with  his  thrashing  wisdom  made  us  start  : 
Described  the  greatest  secrets  of  the  mint — 
And  made  folks  fancy  that  he  had  been  in't. 
Of  hops  and  malt  'tis  wondrous  what  he  knew  ; 
And  well  as  any  brewer  he  could  brew. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

In  ghosts  the  Doctor  strongly  did  believe, 
And  pinned  his  faith  on  many  a  liar's  sleeve. 
He  said  to  Doctor  Lawrence  ;   "Sure  I  am, 
I  heard  my  poor  dear  mother  call  out  *  Sam  !' 
I'm  sure,"  said  he,  "that  I  can  trust  my  ears  : 
And  yet  my  mother  had  been  dead  for  years." 

BOZZY. 

When  young  ('twas  rather  silly,  I  allow), 
Much  was  I  pleased  to  imitate  a  cow. 
One  time,  at  Drury-lane,  with  Doctor  Blair, 
My  imitations  made  the  playhouse  stare. 
So  very  charming  was  I  in  my  roar 
That  both  the  galleries  clapped,  and  cried  "  encore  ! 
Blessed  by  the  general  plaudit  and  the  laugh — 
I  tried  to  be  a  jackass  and  a  calf. 
But  who,  alas  !  in  all  things  can  be  great? 
In  short,  I  met  a  terrible  defeat :        -^^■ 
So  vile  I  brayed  and  bellowed,  I  was  hissed — 
Yet  all  who  knew  me  wondered  that  I  missed. 
Blair  whispered  me  ;   "  You've  lost  your  credit  now  ; 
Stick,  Bos  well,  for  the  future,  to  your  cow." 


MADAME  PIOZZI. 
For  me,  in  Latin,  Doctor  Johnson  wrote 
Two  lines  upon  Sir  Joseph  Banks's  goat ; 
A  goat  that  round  the  world,  so  curious,  went — 
A  goat  that  now  eats  grass  that  grows  in  Kent. 


WOLCOT.  243 


BOZZY. 

To  Lord  Monboddo  a  few  lines  I  wrote, 
And,  by  the  servant  Joseph,  sent  this  note  : — 

"Thus  far,  my  lord,  from  Edinburgh,  my  home, 
With  Mr.  Samuel  Johnson  I  am  come  : 
This  night,  by  us,  must  certainly  be  seen 
The  very  handsome  town  of  Aberdeen. 
For  thoughts  of  Johnson  you'll  be  not  applied  to — 
1  know  your  lordship  likes  him  less  than  I  do. 
So  near  we  are — to  part  I  can't  tell  how 
Without  so  much  as  making  you  a  bow. 
Besides,  the  Rambler  says,  to  see  Monbodd, 
He'd  wander  two  whole  miles  out  of  the  road  : 
Which  shows  that  he  admires  (whoever  rails) 
The  pen  which  proves  that  men  are  born  with  tails. 
Hoping  that,  as  to  health,  your  lordship  does  well, 
I  am  your  servant  at  command,  James  Boswell." 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

On  Mr.  Thrale's  old  hunter  Johnson  rode — 
Who  with  prodigious  pride  the  beast  bestrode ; 
And,  as  on  Brighton  Downs  he  dashed  away, 
Much  was  he  pleased  to  hear  a  sportsman  say 
That  at  a  chase  he  was  as  tight  a  hand 
As  e'er  an  ill-bred  lubber  in  the  land, 

Bozzy. 

One  morning,  Johnson,  on  the  Isle  of  Mull, 
Was  of  his  politics  excessive  full  : 
Quoth  he,  "That  Pulteney  was  a  rogue,  'tis  plain — 
Besides,  the  fellow  was  a  Whig  in  grain." 
Then  to  his  principles  he  gave  a  banging. 
And  swore  no  Whig  was  ever  M'orth  a  hanging. 
*"Tis  wonderful,"  says  he,  "and  makes  one  stare, 
To  think,  the  livery  chose  John  Wilkes  lord  mayor  : 
A  dog  of  whom  the  world  could  nurse  no  hopes — 
Prompt  to  debauch  their  girls,  and  rob  their  shops,'* 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Sir,  I  believe  that  anecdote  a  lie  ; 
But  grant  that  Johnson  said  it — by  the  bye — 
As  Wilkes  unhappily  your  friendship  shared, 
The  dirty  anecdote  might  well  be  spared. 

BOZZY. 

Madam,  I  stick  to  truth  as  much  as  you, 
And  damme  if  the  story  be  not  tnie. 


244  IVOLCOT. 


AYhat  you  have  said  of  Johnson  and  the  larks 
As  much  the  Rambler  for  a  savage  marks. 
'Twas  scandalous,  even  Candour  must  allow, 
To  give  the  history  of  the  horse  and  cow. 
"Who  but  an  enemy  to  Johnson's  fame 
Dared  his  vile  prank  at  Lichfield  playhouse  name, 
Where,  without  ceremony,  he  thought  fit 
To  fling  the  man  and  chair  into  the  pit  ? 
"Who  would  have  registered  a  s]3eech  so  odd 
On  the  dead  Stay-maker,  and  Doctor  Dodd? 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 
Sam  Johnson's  thrashing  knowledge,  and  his  thatching, 
May  be  your  own  inimitable  hatching. 
Pray,  of  his  wisdom  can't  you  tell  more  news  ? 
Could  not  he  make  a  shirt,  and  cobble  shoes? 
Knit  stockings,  or  ingenious  take  up  stitches — 
Draw  teeth,  dress  wigs,  or  make  a  pair  of  breeches  ? 
Yoti  prate  too  of  his  knowledge  of  the  mint, 
As  if  the  Rambler  really  had  been  in't : — 
Who  knows  but  you  will  tell  us  (truth  forsaking) 
That  each  bad  shilling  is  of  Johnson's  making, 
His  each  vile  sixpence  that  the  world  hath  cheated, 
And  his  the  art  that  every  guinea  sweated  ? 
About  his  brewing  knowledge  you  will  prate  too. 
Who  scarcely  knew  a  hop  from  a  potatoe  : 
And,  though  of  beer  he  joyed  in  hearty  swigs, 
I'd  pit  against  his  taste  my  husband's  pigs. 

BOZZY. 

How  could  your  folly  tell,  so  void  of  truth, 
That  miserable  story  of  the  youth 
-Who,  in  your  book;  of  Doctor  Johnson  begs 
Most  seriously  to  know  if  cats  laid  eggs  ? 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Who  told  of  Mrs.  Montague  the  lie — 
So  palpable  a  falsehood  ? — 13ozzy,  fie  ! 

BOZZY. 

Whc,  maddening  with  an  anecdotic  itch. 
Declared  that  Johnson  called  his  mother  "  bitch  "  ? 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Who,  from  M 'Donald's  rage  to  save  his  snout, 
Cut  twenty  lines  of  defamation  out  ? 

BOZZY. 
Who  would  have  said  a  word  about  .Sam's  wig, 
Or  told  the  story  of  the  peas  and  pig  ? 


WOLCOT.  245 


Who  would  have  told  a  tale  so  veiy  flat, 

Of  Frank  the  Black,  and  Hodge  the  mangy  cat  ? 

MADAME  PlOZZr. 

Ecod  !  you're  grown  at  once  confounded  tender — 
Of  Doctor  Johnson's  fame  a  fierce  defender  ! 
I'm  sure_}w<'ve  mentioned  many  a  pretty  story 
Not  much  redounding  to  the  Doctor's  glory. 
Now,  for  a  saint  upon  us  you  would  palm  him — • 
First  murder  the  poor  man,  and  then  embalm  him  ! 

BOZZY. 

And  truly,  madam,  Johnson  cannot  boast- 
By  your  acquaintance,  he  hath  rather  lost : 
His  character  so  shockingly  you  handle 
You've  sunk  your  comet  to  a  farthing  candle. 
Your  vanities  contrived  the  sage  to  hitch  in, 
And  bribed  him  with  the  run  of  all  your  kitchen. 
Yet  nought  he  bettered  by  his  elevation  : 
Though  beef  he  won — he  lost  his  reputation. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

One  quarter  of  your  book  had  Johnson  read, 
Fist-criticism  had  rattled  round  your  head. 
Yet  let  my  satire  not  too  far  pursue — 
It  boasts  so)7ie  merit,  give  the  Devil  his  due. 
Where  grocers  and  where  pastry-cooks  reside, 
Thy  book,  with  triumph,  may  indulge  its  pride ; 
Preach  to  the  patty-pans  sententious  stuff — 
And  hug  that  idol  of  the  nose,  called  snuff; 
With  all  its  stories  cloves  and  ginger  please, 
And  pour  its  wonders  to  a  pound  of  cheese  ! 

BOZZV. 

Madam,  your  irony  is  wondrous  fine  ! 
Sense  in  each  thought,  and  wit  in  every  line ! 
Yet,  madam,  when  the  leaves  of  my  poor  book 
Visit  the  grocer  or  the  pastry-cook. 
Yours,  to  enjoy  of  fame  the  just  reward, 
May  aid  the  trunk-maker  of  Paul's  Church- Yard. 
In  the  same  alehouses  together  used, 
By  the  same  fingers  they  may  be  abused. 
The  greasy  snuffers  yours  perchance  may  wipe, 
Whilst  mine,  high  honoured,  liglits  a  toper's  pipe. 
The  praise  of  Courteney  my  book's  fame  secures  : 
Now  who  the  devil,  madam,  praises  yours  ? 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Thousands,  you  blockhead  ! — no  one  now  can  doubt  it, 
For  not  a  soul  in  London  is  without  U. 


246  WOLCOT. 


The  folks  were  ready  Cadell  to  devour, 

Who  sold  the  first  edition  in  an  hour  ; 

So  ! — Courteney's  praises  save  you — ah  ! — that  squire 

Deals  (let  me  tell  you)  more  in  smoke  than  fire. 

BOZZY. 
Zounds !  he  has  praised  me  in  the  sweetest  line — 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 

Ay !  ay !  the  verse  and  subject  equal  shine 
Few  are  the  mouths  that  Courteney's  wit  rehearse — 
Mere  cork  in  politics,  and  lead  in  verse. 

BOZZY. 

Well,  ma'am  !  since  all  that  Johnson  said  or  wrote 
You  hold  so  sacred — how  have  you  forgot 
To  grant  the  wonder-hunting  world  a  reading 
Of  Sam's  Epistle  just  before  your  wedding  ; 
Beginning  thus,  in  strains  not  formed  to  flatter  : 
"  Madam,  If  that  most  ignominious  matter 
Be  not  concluded," — 

Farther  shall  I  say? 
No — your  kind  self  maygive  it  us,  one  day — 
And  justify  your  passion  for  the  youth. 
With  all  the  charms  of  eloquence  and  truth. 

MADAME  PIOZZI. 
What  was  my  marriage.  Sir,  to  you  or  him? 
He  tell  me  what  to  do ! — A  pretty  whim ! 
He  to  propriety  (the  beast)  exhort ! 
As  well  might  elephants  preside  at  court. 
Lord !  let  the  world  to  damn  my  match  agree  ; 
Tell  me,  James  Boswell,  what's  that  world  to  me 
The  folks  who  paid  respect  to  Mrs.  Thrale, 
Fed  on  her  pork,  poor  souls !  and  swilled  her  ale. 
May  sicken  at  Piozzi,  nine  in  ten — 
Turn  up  the  nose  of  scorn — good  God !  what  then? 
For  me,  the  devil  may  fetch  their  souls  so  great ; 
They  keep  their  company,  and  1  my  meat. 
When  they,  poor  owls !  shall  beat  their  cage,  a  jail — 
I,  unconfined,  shall  spread  my  peacock  tail ; 
Free  as  the  birds  of  air,  enjoy  my  ease, 
Choose  my  own  food,  and  see  what  climes  t  please. 
I  suffer  only — //"I'm  in  the  wrong. 
So,  now,  you  prating  pupjjy,  hold  your  tongue. 

SIR  JOHN. 

For  shame!  for  shame!   for  heaven's  sake,  pray  be 
quiet — 
Not  Billingsgate  exhibits  such  a  riot. 


WOLCOT.  247 


Behold !  for  scandal  you  have  made  a  feast, 

And  turned  your  idol,  Johnson,  to  a  beast. 

'Tis  plain  the  tales  of  ghosts  are  arrant  lies, 

Or  instantaneously  would  Johnson's  rise  ; 

Make  you  both  eat  your  paiagraphs  so  evil ; 

And,  for  your  treatment  to  him,  play  the  devil. 

Just  like  two  Mohocks  on  the  man  you  fall  ; 

No  murderer  is  worse  served  at  Surgeons'  Hall! 

Instead  of  adding  splendour  to  his  name, 

Your  books  are  downright  gibbets  to  his  fame. 

Of  those  your  anecdotes— may  I  be  cursed 

If  I  can  tell  you  which  of  them  is  worst 

You  never  with  posterity  can  thrive — 

'Tis  by  the  Rambler's  death  alone  you  live ; 

Like  wrens  that  (in  some  volume  I  have  read) 

Hatched  by  strange  fortune  in  a  horse's  head. 

Poor  Sam  was  rather  fainting  in  his  glory, 

But  now  his  fame  lies  foully  dead  before  ye : 

Thus  to  some  dying  man  (a  frequent  case) 

Two  doctors  come  and  give  the  coup  de  grace. 

Zounds     madam,  mind  the  duties  of  a  wife, 

And  dream  no  more  of  Dr.  Johnson's  life. 

A  happy  knowledge  in  a  pie  or  pudding 

Will  more  delight  your  friends  than  all  your  studying ; 

One  cut  from  venison  to  the  heart  can  speak 

Stronger  than  ten  quotations  from  the  Greek  ; 

One  fat  sirloin  possesses  more  sublime 

Than  all  the  airy  castles  built  by  rhyme. 

One  nipperkin  of  stingo  with  a  toast 

Beats  all  the  streams  the  Muses'  fount  can  boast. 

Yes,  in  one  pint  of  porter,  lo !  my  belly  can 

Find  blisses  not  in  all  the  floods  of  Helicon. 

Enough  those  anecdotes  your  powers  have  shown  ; 

Sam's  life,  dear  ma'am,  will  only  damn  your  own. 

For  thee,  James  Boswell,  may  the  hand  of  fate 

Arrest  thy  goose-quill,  and  confine  thy  prate; 

Thy  egotisms  the  world  disgusted  hears. 

Then  load  with  vanities  no  more  our  cars ; 

Like  some  lone  puppy,  yelping  all  night  long, 

That  tires  the  very  echoes  with  his  tongue. 

Yet,  should  it  lie  beyond  the  powers  of  fate 

To  stop  thy  pen,  and  still  thy  dailing  prate. 

Oh  be  in  solitude  to  live  thy  luck — 

A  chatteriug  magpie  on  the  Isle  of  Muck ! 

Thus  spoke  the  Judge  ;  then,  leaping  from  the 
chair. 
He  left,  in  consternation  lost,  the  pair: — 
Black  Frank  he  sought,  on  anecdote  to  cram, 
And  vomit  first  a  life  of  surly  Sam. — 


248  woLcor. 


Shocked  at  the  little  manners  of  the  knight, 
The  rivals  marvelling  marked  his  sudden  flight ; 
Then  to  their  pens  and  paper  rushed  the  twain, 
To  kill  the  mangled  Rambler  o'er  again. 


POETICAL,  SUPPLICATING,  MODEST,  AND  AFFECTING 
EPISTLE  TO  THOSE  LITERARY  COLOSSUSES, 
THE  REVIEWERS. 
"  Carmine  Di  Superi  placantur,  carmine  Manes." 

Fathers  of  vi^isdom,  a  poor  wight  befriend  ! 

Oh  hear  my  simple  prayer  in  simple  lays  : 
Jnfor7nd  pauperis  behold  I  bend, 

And  of  your  worships  ask  a  little  praise^ 

I  am  no  cormorant  for  fame,  d'ye  see  ; 

I  ask  not  all  the  laurel,  but  a  sprig  ! 
Then  hear  me,  guardians  of  the  sacred  tree. 

And  stick  a  leaf  or  two  about  my  wig. 

In  sonnet,  ode,  and  legendary  tale, 

Soon  will  the  press  my  tunefid  works  display  ; 

Then  do  not  damn  'em,  and  prevent  the  sale  ; 
And  your  petitioner  shall  ever  pray. 

My  labours  damned,  the  Muse  with  grief  will  groan— 
The  censure  dire  my  lantern  jaws  will  rue  ! 

Know,  I  have  teeth  and  stomach  like  your  own,^ 
And  that  1  wish  to  eat  as  well  as  you. 

I  never  said,  like  murderers  in  their  dens. 
You  secret  met  in  cloud-capped  garret  high, 

With  liatchets,  scalping-knives  in  shape  of  pens,. 
To  bid,  like  Mohocks,  hapless  authors  die  : 

Nor  said,  in  your  Reviews,  together  strung, 
The  limbs  of  butchered  writers,  cheek  by  jowl. 

Looked  like  the  legs  of  flies  on  cobwebs  hung 
13efore  the  hungry  spider's  dreary  hole. 

I  ne'er  declared  that,  frightful  as  the  Blacks, 

In  greasy  flannel  caps  you  met  togethei", 
With  sca-rce  a  rag  of  shirt  about  your  backs, 

Or  coat  or  breeches  to  keep  out  the  weather. 

Heaven  knows  I'm  innocent  of  all  transgression 
Against  your  honours,  men  of  classic  fame  ! 

1  ne'er  abused  your  critical  profession, 

Whose  dictum  saves  at  once  or  damns  a  name.. 


WOLCOT.  249 


I  never  questioned  your  profound  of  head, 

Nor  vulgar  called  your  wit,  your  manners  coarse  j, 

Nor  swore  on  butchered  authors  that  you  fed 
Like  carrion  crows  upon  a  poor  dead  horse. 

I  never  said  that  pedlar-like  you  sold 

Praise  by  the  ounce  or  pound,  like  snufT  or  cheese  J 
Too  well  1  knew  you  silver  scorned,  and  gold — 

Such  dross  a  sage  Reviewer  seldom  sees  ! 

I  never  hmted  that  with  half  a  crown 

Books  have  been  sent  you  by  the  scribbling  tribe  ; 
Which  fee  hath  purchased  pages  of  renown  : 

No,  for  I  knew  you'd  spurn  the  paltry  bribe. 

I  ne'er  averred  you  critics,  to  a  man. 

For  pence  would  swear  an  owl  excelled  the  lark  % 
Nor  called  a  coward  gang  your  grave  Divan, 

That  stabbed,  like  base  assassins,  in  the  dark. 

I  never  praised,  or  blamed,  an  author's  book. 

Until  your  wise  opinions  came  abroad. 
On  these  with  holy  reverence  did  I  look  :  ^ 

With  you  I  praised,  or  blamed,  so  help  me  God  I' 

The  famed  Longinus  all  the  world  must  know  ;. 

The  gape  of  wonder  Aristarchus  drew, 
As  well  as  Alexander's  tutor,  lo  ! 

All,  all  great  critics,  gentlemen,  like  you. 

Did  any  ask  me,  "  Pray,  Sir,  your  opinion 
Of  those  Reviewers  who  so  bold  bestride 

The  world  of  learning,  and,  with  proud  dominion,. 
High  on  the  backs  of  crouching  authors  ride?" 

Quick  have  I  answered,  in  a  rage,  "  Odsblood  1 
No  works  like  theirs  such  criticism  convey  : 

Not  all  the  timber  of  Dodona's  wood 

E'er  poured  more  sterling  oracle  than  they." 

Did  others  cry,  "  Whate'er  their  brains  indite. 

Be  sure  is  excellent — a  partial  crew  ! 
With  io  pceans  ushered  to  the  light, 

And  praised  to  folly  in  the  next  Reviev/." 

This  was  my  answer  to  each  snarling  elf 

(My  eyeballs  filled  with  fire,  my  mouth  with  foam)! 
"Zounds  !  is  not  justice  due  to  one's  dear  self? 

And  should  not  charity  begin  at  home?" 


IVOLCOT.. 


Full  often  I've  been  questioned  with  a  sneer— 
■'Think  you  one  could  not  bribe  'em?'' — "Not  a 
nation." 

"  A  beef-steak,  with  a  pot  or  two  of  beer, 
Might  save  a  little  volume  from  damnation." 

Furious  I've  answered  :  "  Lo  !  my  Lord  Cai-lisle 
Math  begged  in  vain  a  seat  in  Fame's  old  temple  ; 

Though  you  applaud,  their  wisdoms  will  not  smile  ; 
And  what  they  disapprove  is  cursed  simple. 

"  Could  gold  succeed,  enough  the  peer  might  raise, 
Whose  wealth  would  buy  the  critics  o'er  and  o'er  : 

*Tis  merit  only  can  command  their  praise, 
Witness  the  volumes  of  Miss  Hannah  More  ; 

"  The  Search  for  Happiness,  that  beauteous  song. 
Which  all  of  us  would  give  our  ears  to  own  ; 

The  Captive,  Percy,  that,  like  mustard  strong. 
Make  our  eyes  weep,  and  understandings  groan." 

Hail,  Bristol  town  !  Boeotia  now  no  more. 

Since  Garrick's  Sappho  sings,  though  rather  slowly  ! 

All  hail.  Miss  Hannah  !  worth  at  least  a  score, 
Ay,  twenty  score,  of  Chatterton  and  Rowley 

Men  of  prodigious  parts  are  mostly  shy  ; 

Great  Newton's  self  this  failing  did  inhei'it ; 
Thus,  frequent,  you  avoid  the  public  eye. 

And  hide  ni  lurkmg-holes  a  world  of  merit. 

Yet  oft  your  cautious  modesties  I  see. 

When  from  your  bower  with  bats  you  wing  the  dark  : 
And  Sundays,  when  no  catchpoles  prowl  for  prey. 

On  ether  dining  in  St.  James's  Park. 

Meek  Sirs  !  in  frays  you  choose  not  to  appear, — 
A  circumstance  most  natural  to  suppose  ; 

And  therefore  hide  your  precious  heads,  for  fear 
Some  angry  bard  abused  should  pull  your  nose. 

The  world's  loud  plaudit,  lo  !  you  don't  desire, 

Nor  do  you  hastily  on  books  decide  ; 
But  first  at  every  coffee-house  enquire 

How  in  its  favour  runs  the  public  tide. 

There  Wisdom  often  with  a  critic  wig, 

The  face  demure,  knit  brows,  and  forehead  scowling, 
I've  seen  o'er  pamphlets,  with  importance  big. 

Mousing  for  faults,  or,  if  you'll  have  it,  owling. 


WOLCOT.  251 


Herculean  gentlemen !  I  dread  your  drubs  ; 

Pity  the  lifted  whites  of  both  my  eyes  ! 
Strung  with  new  strength  beneath  your  massy  clubs, 

Alas  !  I  shall  not  an  Antaeus  rise. 

Lo,  like  an  elephant  along  the  ground, 

Great  Caliban,  the  giant  Johnson  stretched  ! 

Tlie  British  Roscius  too  your  clubs  confound, 

Whose  fame  the  farthest  of  the  stars  hath  reached. 

If  such  so  easy  sink  beneath  your  might. 
Ye  gods  !  I  may  be  done  for  in  a  trice  : 

Hurled  by  your  rage  to  everlasting  night — 

Cracked  with  that  ease  a  beggar  cracks  his  lice. 

If,  awful  Sirs,  you  grant  me  my  petition, 

With  brother  pamphlets  shall  my  pamphlet  shine  ; 

And,  should  it  chance  to  pass  a  first  edition. 
In  capitals  shall  stare  your  praise  divine. 

Quote  from  my  work  as  much  as  e'er  you  please  j 
For  extracts,  lo  !   I'll  put  no  angry  face  on ; 

Nor  fill  a  hungry  lawyer's  fist  with  fees. 

To  trounce  a  bookseller,  like  furious  Mason. ^ 

Sage  Sirs  !  if  favour  in  your  sight  I  find. 

If  fame  you  grant,  I'll  bless  each  generous  giver  ; 

Wish  you  sound  coats,  good  stomachs,  masters  kind,^ 
Gallons  of  broth,  and  pounds  of  bullock's  liver. 


A  LYRIC  ODE. 

The  mean,  the  rancorous  jealousies,  that  swell 
In  some  sad  artists'  souls,  I  do  despise  ; 

Instead  of  nobly  striving  to  excel, 

You  strive  to  pick  out  one  the  other's  eyes. 

To  be  a  painter  was  Correggio's  glory: — 

His  speech  should  flame  in  gold—" Sono  piUore." 

But  what,  if  truth  were  spoke,  would  be  ymtr  speeches  ? 
This — "We're  a  set  of  fame-sucking  horse-leeches, 
Without  a  blusli  the  poorest  scandal  speaking — 
Like  cocks,  for  ever  at  each  other  beaking  ; 
As  if  the  globe  we  dwell  on  were  so  small 
There  really  was  not  room  enough  for  all," 

Young  men  !- 


I  do  presume  that  one  of  you  in  ten 
Hath  kept  a  dog  or  two  ;  and  liath  remarked 
That,  when  you  have  been  comfortably  feeding, 

1  The  contest  betu'cen  Mr.  Mason  and  a  bookseller  is  generally  known. 
-  The  booksellers. 


252  WOLCOT. 


The  curs,  •without  one  atom  of  court-breeding, 
With  watery  jaws,  have  whined,  and  pawed,  and  barked; 

Showed  anxiousness  about  the  mutton-bone. 
And  'stead  oi  your  mouth,  wished  it  in  their  own  ; 
And  if  you  gave  this  bone  to  one  or  t'otlier. 
Heavens  !  what  a  snarlmg,  Cjuarrelhng,  and  pother  ! 
This  oft,  perhaps,  has  touched  you  to  the  quid':, 
And  made  you  teach  good  manners  by  a  kick  ; 
And,  if  the  tumult  was  beyond  all  bearing, 
A  little  bit  of  sweet  emphatic  swearing, — 
An  eloquence  of  wondrous  use  in  wars 
Amongst  sea-captains  and  the  brave  Jack-tars. 

Now  tell  me  honestly — pray  don't  you  find 
Somewhat  in  Christians  just  of  the  same  kind 

That  you  experienced  in  the  curs, 

Causing  your  anger  and  demurs? 
As,  for  example,  when  your  mistress,  Fame, 
AVishing  to  celebrate  a  vs'orthy  name, 
Takes  up  her  trump  to  give  the  just  applause. 

How  have  you,  puppy-like,  pawed,  wished,  and 
whined. 

And  growled,  and  cursed,  and  swore,  and  pined, 
And  longed  to  tear  the  trumpet  from  her  jaws  ! 
The  dogs  deserve  their  kicking  to  be  sui-e  ; 
But  you  !  O  fie,  boys  !  go,  and  sin  no  more ! 


TO  MYSELF. 

O  Thou  !  whose  daring  works  sublime 
Defy  the  rudest  rage  of  Time, 
Say! — for  the  world  is  with  conjecture  dizzy. 
Did  Mousehole  give  thee  birth,  or  Mevagizzy  ? 

Hail,  Mevagizzy!   what  a  town  of  note  ! 

Where  boats,  and  men,  and  stinks,  and  trade,  are 
stirrmg  ; 
Where  pilchards  come  in  myriads  to  be  caught  ; 

Pilchard  !  a  thousand  limes  as  good's  a  herring  ! 

Pilchard,  the  idol  of  the  Popish  nation  ! 
Hail,  little  instrument  of  vast  salvation  ! 
Pilchard,  I  ween,  a  most  soul-saving  fish. 

On  which  the  Catholics  in  Lent  are  crammed, — 
Who,  had  they  not,  poor  souls,  this  lucky  dish. 

Would  flesh  eat,  and  be  consequently  damned. 
Pilchards  !  whose  bodies  yield  the  fragrant  oil, 
And  make  the  London  lamps  at  midnight  smile  ; 
Which  lamps,  wide-spreading  salutary  light, 


WOLCOT.  253 


Beam  on  the  wandering  Beauties  of  the  night, 

And  show  each  gentle  youth  their  cheeks'  deep  roses, 

And  tell  him  whether  they  have  eyes  and  noses. 

Hail,  Mousehole  !  birthplace  of  old  Doll  Pentreath,^ 
The  last  who  jabbered  Cornish — so  says  Daines, 

Who  bat-like  haunted  ruins,  lane,  and  heath, 
With  Will-o'-Wisp,  to  brighten  up  his  brains. 

Daines,  who  a  thousand  miles  unwearied  trots, 
For  bones,  brass  farthings,  ashes,  and  old  pots. 
To  prove  that  folks  of  old,  like  us,  were  made 
With  heads,  eyes,  hands,  and  toes,  to  drive  a  trade. 


FAREWELL  ODES  (i786).2 
I. 
Peter,  like  famed  Christina,  queen  of  Sweden, 
Who  thought  a  wicked  court  was  not  an  Eden, 
This  year  resigns  the  laurel  crown  for  ever ! 
What  all  the  famed  Academicians  wish — 
No  more  on  painted  fowl,  and  flesh,  and  fish, 
He  shows  the  world  his  carving  skill  so  clever. 
Brass,  iron,  woodwork,  stone,  in  peace  shall  rest  : — 
"Thank  God  !"  exclaim  the  works  of  Mr.  West. 

"Thank  God  !"  the  works  of  Loutherbourg  exclaim— 

For  guns  of  critics  no  ignoble  game — 

"No  longer  now  afraid  of  rhyming  praters, 

Shall  we  be  christened  tea-boards,  varnished  waiters  ! 

No  verse  shall  swear  that  ours  are  pasteboard  rocks ; 

Our  trees,  brass  wigs ;  and  mops,  our  fleecy  flocks." 

"Thank  heaven  !"  exclaims  Rigaud,  with  sparkling  eyes — 

"Then  shall  my  pictures  in  importance  rise. 

And  fill  each  gaping  mouth  and  eye  with  wonder." 

Monsieur  Kigaud, 

It  may  be  so. 
To  think  thy  stars  have  made  so  strange  a  blunder, 
That  bred  to  paint  the  genius  of  a  glazier  ! 
That  spoiled,  to  make  a  dauber,  a  good  brazier  ! 
None  but  thy  partial  tongue  (believe  my  lays) 
Can  dare  stand  forth  the  herald  of  thy  praise  : 
Could  Fame  applaud,  whose  voice  my  verse  reveres, 
Justice  should  break  her  trump  about  her  ears. 

1  A  very  old  woman  of  Mousehole,  supposed  (falsely  however)  to  have  been 
the  last  who  spoke  the  Cornish  language. — The  honourable  antiquarian,  Daines 
Barrington  Esq.,  journeyed,  some  years  since,  from  London  to  the  Land's-<,nd, 
to  converse  with  this  wrinkled  yet  delicious  niorccau. 

2  Concluding  a  series  of  criticisms  in  verse  on  the  annual  exhibitions  of  the 
Royal  Academy. 


254  WOLCOT. 


"Thank  Heaven!"  cries  Mr.  Garvy;  and  "Thank  God!" 

Cries  Mr.  Copley,  "tliat  this  Man  of  Ode 

No  more,  barbarian-Hke,  shall  o'er  us  ride  ; 
No  more,  like  beads  in  nasty  order  strung, 
And  round  the  waist  -of  this  vile  Mohock  hung, 

Shall  academic  scalps  indulge  his  pride. 

"No  more  hung  up  in  this  dread  fellow's  rhyme. 
Which  he  most  impudently  calls  sublime, 

Shall  we,  poor  inoffensive  souls. 

Appear  just  like  so  many  moles, 
Trapped  in  an  orchard,  garden,  or  a  field  ; 

Which  mole-catchers  suspend  on  trees, 

To  show  their  titles  to  tlieir  fees, — 
Like  doctors,  paid  too  often  for  the  killed." 

Pleased  that  no  more  my  verses  shall  annoy, 

Glad  that  my  blister  Odes  shall  cease  their  stinging] 

Each  wooden  figure's  mouth  expands  with  joy — - 
Hark  !  how  they  all  break  forth  in  singing  ! — 

In  boastful  sounds  the  grinning  artists  ciy;' 
"  Lo  !   Peter's  hour  of  insolence  is  o'er  :   ; 

His  Muse  is  dead — his  lyric  pump  is  dry — 

His  Odes,  like  stinking  fish,  not  worth  a  groat  a  score. 

Art  thou  then  weak  like  us,  thou  snarling  sniveller? 

Art  thou  like  one  of  us,  thou  lyric  driveller  ? 

"Our  kings  and  queens  in  glory  now  shall  lie, 

Each  unmolested,  sleeping  in  his  frame  ; 
Our  ponds,  our  lakes,  our  oceans,  earth,  and  sky. 

No  longer,  scouted,  shall  be  put  to  shame. 
No  poet's  rage  shall  root  our  stumps  and  stumplings, 
And  swear  our  clouds  are  flying  apple-dumplings. 
Fame  shall  proclaim  how  well  our  plum-trees  bud. 
And  sound  the  merits  of  our  marie  and  mud. 

"  Our  oaks,  our  brushwood,  and  our  lofty  elms. 
No  jingling  tyra'^t's  wicked  rage  o'erwhelms, 

Now  this  vile  feller  is  laid  low  : 
In  peace  shall  our  stone-hedges  sleep, 
Our  huts,  our  barns,  our  pigs  and  sheep. 

And  wild  fowl,  from  the  eagle  to  the  crow. 

"They  who  shall  see  this  Peter  in  the  street 
With  fearless  eye  his  front  shall  meet, 

And  cry,  '  Is  this  the  man  of  keen  remark? 
Is  this  the  wight  ?'  shall  be  their  taunting  speech; 
'  A  dog  !  who  dared  to  snrp  each  artist's  breech. 

And  bite  Academicians  like  a  shark ! 


WOLCOT.  255 


"  '  He  whose  bioaci  cleaver  chopped  the  sons  of  paint ; 
Crushed  like  a  marrowbone  eacli  lovely  saint; 

Spared  not  the  very  clothes  about  theii  backs  ; 
The  little  duck-winged  cherubims  abused, 
That  could  not  more  inhumanly  be  used, 

Poor  lambkins!  had  they  fallen  among  the  blacks; — 
He,  once  so  furious,  soon  shall  want  relief, 
Staked  through  the  body  like  a  paltry  thief. 

"  '  How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Cherokee  ! '  they  cry ; 

'  How  art  thou  fallen  !'  the  joyful  roofs  resound ; 

'  Hell  shall  thy  body  for  a  rogue  surround  ; 
And  there  for  ever  roasting  mayst  thou  lie  : 
Like  Dives,  mayst  thou  stretch  in  fires  along, 
Refused  one  drop  of  drink  to  cool  thy  tongue  !' " 

Ye  goodly  gentlemen,  repress  your  yell  ; 

Your  hearty  wishes  for  my  health  restrain ; 
For,  if  our  works  can  put  us  into  hell, 

Kind  Sirs  !  we  certainly  shall  meet  again. 
Nay,  what  is  worse,  I  really  don't  know  whether 
We  must  not  lodge  in  the  same  room  together. 


11. 

A  MODEST  love  of  praise  I  do  not  blame — 

But  I  abhor  a  rape  on  Mistress  Fame. 

Although  the  lady  is  exceeding  chaste. 

Young  forward  bullies  seize  her  round  the  waist ; 

Swear,  nolens  volens,  that  she  shall  be  kissed , 
And,  though  she  vows  she  does  not  like  'em, 
Nay,  threatens  for  their  impudence  to  strike  'em, 

The  saucy  rascals  still  persist. 

Reader  ! — of  images  here's  no  confusion — 
Thou  therefore  understand'st  the  bard's  allusion. 
Eut  possibly  thou  hast  a  thickish  head, 

And  therefore  no  vast  quantity  of  brain  : — 
Why  then,  my  precious  pig  of  lead, 

'Tis  necessary  to  explain. 

Some  artists,  if  I  so  may  call  'em, — 
So  ignorant,  the  foul  fiend  maul  'em, 
Mere  drivellers  in  the  charming  art, — 

Are  vastly  fond  of  being  praised, 

Wish  to  the  stars,  like  Blanchard,^  to  be  raised: 
And  raised  they  should  be,  reader, — from  a  cart. 

1  The  famous  Aeronaut. 


656  W0LC07. 


If  disappointed  in  some  Stentor's  tongue, 
Upon  themselves  they  pour  forth  prose  or  song  j 

Or  buy  it  in  some  venal  paper, 

And  then  heroically  vapour. 

What  prigs  to  immortality  aspir-e, 

Who  stick  their  trash  arounJ  the  room  \—- 
Trash,  meriting  a  very  different  doom, — - 

I  mean  the  warmer  regions  of  the  fire. 

Heaven  knows  that  I  am  angered  to  the  soul 

To  find  some  blockheads  of  their  works  so  vain- — 

So  proud  to  see  them  hanging  cheek  by  jowl 

With  his  ^  whose  powers  the  art's  high  fame  sustain. 

To  wondrous  merit  their  pretension, 

On  such  vicinity-suspension, 

Brings  to  my  mind  a  not  unpleasant  story, 

Which,  gentle  readers,  let  me  lay  before  ye. 

A  shabby  fellow  chanced  one  day  to  meet 
The  British  Roscius  in  the  street, 

Garrick,  of  whom  our  nation  justly  brags. 
The  fellow  hugged  him,  with  a  kind  emljrace. 
"Good  Sir,  I  do  not  recollect  your  face," 

Quoth  Garrick.     "  No  ?"  replied  the  man  of  rags. 
"  The  boards  of  Drury  you  and  I  have  trod 
Full  many  a  time  together,  I  am  sure." 
"  When?"  with  an  oath  cried  Garrick  ;  "for,  by  God, 
I  never  saw  that  face  of  yours  before  ] — 

What  characters,  I  pray, 

Did  you  and  I  together  play  ?"  1 
"  Lord  !"  quoth  the  fellow,  '•  think  not  that  I  mock — 
When  you  played  Hamlet,  Sir,— I  played  the  cock."* 


1  The  President  Reynolds,  2  in  the  Ghost  Scene. 


CAPTAIN  MORRIS.  257 

CHARLES  MORRIS. 

[Captain  Morris  was  born  in  1740,  and  died  in  1S32]. 
THE  CONTRAST. 

In  London  I  never  know  what  I'd  be  at, 
Enraptured  with  this,  and  enchanted  with  that ; 
I'm  wild  with  the  sweets  of  variety's  plan. 
And  Life  seems  a  blessing  too  happy  for  man. 

Cut  the  Country,  Lord  help  me  !  sets  all  matters  right, 
So  calm  and  composing  from  morning  to  night ; 
Oh  !  it  .settles  the  spirits  when  nothing  is  seen 
But  an  ass  on  a  common,  a  goose  on  a  green. 

In  town  if  it  rain,  why  it  damps  not  our  hope. 
The  eye  has  her  choice,  and  the  fancy  her  scope  ; 
What  harm  though  it  pour  whole  nights  or  whole  days  ? 
It  spoils  not  our  prospects,  or  stops  not  our  ways. 

In  the  country  what  bliss,  when  it  rains  in  the  fields, 
To  live  on  the  transports  that  shuttlecock  yields  ; 
Or  go  crawling  from  window  to  window,  to  see 
A  pig  on  a  dunghill,  or  crow  on  a  tree  ! 

In  London,  if  folks  ill  together  are  put, 
A  bore  may  be  dropped,  and  a  quiz  may  be  cut  ; 
We  change  without  end  ;  and  if  lazy  or  ill. 
All  wants  are  at  hand,  and  all  wishes  at  will. 

In  the  country  you're  nailed,  like  a  pale  in  the  park. 
To  some  stick  of  a  neighbour  that's  crammed  in  the  ark  ; 
And  'tis  odds,  if  you're  hurt,  or  in  fits  tumble  down, 
You  reach  death  ere  the  doctor  can  reach  you  from  town. 

In  London  how  easy  we  visit  and  meet  ! 
Gay  pleasure's  the  theme,  and  sweet  smiles  are  our  treat : 
Our  morning's  a  round  of  good-humoured  delight, 
And  wc  rattle,  in  comfort,  to  pleasure  at  night. 

In  the  country,  how  sprightly  our  visits  we  make 
Through  ten  miles  of  nuul,  for  Lormality's  sake  ! 
With  the  coachman  in  drink,  and  the  moon  in  a  fog, 
And  no  thought  in  our  head  but  a  ditch  or  a  bog. 

In  London  the  spirits  are  cheerful  and  light. 
All  places  are  gay  and  all  faces  are  bright  ; 
We've  ever  new  joys,  and,  revived  by  each  whim, 
Each  day  on  a  fresh  tide  of  pleasure  we  swim. 


25S  CAPTAIN  MORRIS. 

But  how  gay  in  the  country  !  what  summer  delight 
To  be  waiting  for  winter  from  morning  to  niglit  1 
Then  the  fret  of  impatience  gives  exquisite  glee 
Tj  rilifh  the  sweet  rural  subjects  we  see. 

In  town  we've  no  use  for  the  skies  overhead, 
For  when  the  sun  rises  then  we  go  to  bed  ; 
And  as  to  that  old-fashioned  virgin  the  moon, 
She  shines  out  of  season,  like  satin  in  June. 

In  the  country  these  planets  delightfully  glare 
Just  to  show  us  the  object  we  want  isn't  there  j 
Oh  how  cheering  and  gay,  when  their  beauties  arise, 
To  sit  and  gaze  round  with  the  tears  in  one's  eyes  ! 

But  'tis  in  the  country  alone  we  can  find 
That  happy  resource,  that  relief  of  the  mind, 
When,  drove  to  despair,  our  last  efforts  we  make, 
And  drag  the  old  fish-pond,  for  novelty's  sake  : 

Indeed  I  must  own,  'tis  a  pleasure  complete 

To  see  ladies  well  draggled  and  wet  in  their  feet  ; 

But  what  is  all  that  to  the  transport  we  feel 

When  we  capture,  in  triumph,  two  toads  and  ameel? 

I  have  heard,  though,  that  love  in  a  cottage  is  sweet, 
When  two  hearts  in  one  link  of  soft  sympathy  meet  : 
That's  to  come — for  as  yet  I,  alas  !  am  a  swain 
Who  require,  I  ov.-n  it,  more  links  to  my  chain. 

Your  magpies  and  stock-doves  may  flirt  among  trees. 
And  chatter  their  transports  in  groves,  if  they  please  : 
But  a  house  is  much  more  to  my  taste  than  a  tree, 
And  for  groves,  Oh  !   a  good  grove  of  chimneys  for  me  ! 

I.i  the  country,  if  Cupid  should  find  a  man  out, 
Tiie  poor  tortured  victim  mopes  hopeless  about  ; 
But  in  London,  thank  Heaven  !    our  peace  is  secure. 
Where  for  one  eye  to  kill  there's  a  thousand  to  cure. 

I  know  love's  a  devil,  too  subtle  to  spy. 

That  shoots  through  the  soul  from  the  beam  of  an  eye  ; 

But  in  London  these  devils  so  quick  fly  about 

That  a  new  devil  still  drives  an  old  devil  out. 

In  town  let  me  live  then,  in  town  let  me  die. 
For  in  truth  I  can't  relish  the  country,  not  I  ! 
If  one  must  have  a  villa  in  summer  to  dwell. 
Oh  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall ! 


HANNAH  MORE.  259 


HANNAH  MORE. 

[Born  at  Stapleton,  Gloucestershire,  in  1745,  daughter  of  a  village  school- 
master ;  died  at  Clifton  in  1833.  The  talents  of  Hannah  excited  attention  at  a 
very  early  age,  and  she  set  up  a  good  day-school,  and  afterwards  a  boarding- 
school.  Her  first  printed  work  was  the  drama  entitled  The  Search  after  Hnp- 
pittess ;  this  was  followed  hy  Sacred  Dramas,  Strictures  on  the  ISlodern  Sys- 
tem of  Female  Education,  and  a  number  of  other  works  having  for  the  most 
part  a  directly  religious  or  didactic  object]. 

THE  BAS  BLEU;  OR,  CONVERSATION. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  VESEY. 

The  following  trifle  owes  its  birth  and  name  to  the  mistake  of  a  Foreigner  of 
distinction,  who  gave  the  literal  appellation  of  the  Bns-bleu  to  a  small  party  of 
friends  who  had  been  often  called,  by  way  of  pleasantry,  the  Blue  Stockings. 
These  little  Societies  have  been  sometimes  misrepresented.  They  were  com- 
posed of  persons  distinguished,  in  general,  for  their  rank,  talents,  or  respect- 
able character,  who  met  frequently  at  Mrs.  Vesey's  and  at  a  few  other  houses, 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  conversation,  and  were  different  in  no  respect  from  other 
parties  but  that  the  company  did  not  play  at  cards. 

May  the  author  be  permitted  to  bear  her  grateful  testimony  (which  will  not 
be  suspected  of  flattery  now  that  most  of  the  persons  named  in  this  Poem  are 
gone  down  to  the  grave)  to  the  many  pleasant  and  instructive  hours  she  had 
the  honour  to  pass  in  this  company  ;  in  which  learning  was  as  little  disfigured 
by  pedantry,  good  taste  as  little  tinctured  by  affectation,  and  general  conversa- 
tion as  little  disgraced  by  calumny,  levity,  and  the  other  censurable  errors  with 
which  it  IS  too  commonly  tainted,  as  has  perhaps  been  known  in  any  Society. 

Vesey  !  of  Verse  the  judge  and  friend  ! 
A  while  my  idle  strain  attend. 
Not  with  the  days  of  early  Greece 
"T  mean  to  ope  my  slender  piece  ; 
The  rare  Symposium  to  proclaim 
Which  crowned  the  Athenians'  social  name  ; 
Or  how  Aspasia's  parties  shone, 
The  first  Bas-bleii  at  Athens  known  ; 
AVhere  Socrates  unbending  sat, 
"With  Alcibiades  in  chat, 
And  Pericles  vouchsafed  to  mix 
Taste,  wit,  and  mirth,  with  politics. 
Nor  need  I  stop  my  talc  to  show, 
At  least  to  readers  such  as  you, 
How  all  that  Rome  esteemed  polite 
Supped  with  Lucullus  every  night ; 
Lucullus,  who,  from  Pontus  come, 
]jrought  conquests  and  brought  cherries  home. 
Name  but  the  suppers  in  the  Apollo, 
What  classic  images  will  follow  ! 
How  wit  flew  round,  while  each  might  take 
Conchylia  from  t!ie  Lucrine  lake  ; 
And  Attic  salt,  and  Garum  sauce. 
And  lettuce  from  the  isle  of  Cos  ; 
The  first  and  last  from  Greece  transplanted, — 
Used  here  because  the  rhyme  I  wanted, 


26o  HANNAH  MORE. 


How  pheasants'  heads  with  cost  collected, 

And  phenicopters,  stood  neglected, 

To  laugh  at  Scipio's  lucky  hit, 

Pompey's  bon-mot,  or  Caesar's  wit. 

Intemperance,  listening  to  the  tale, 

Forgot  the  mullet  growing  ^  stale  ; 

And  Admiration  balanced  hung 

'Twixt  peacocks'  brains  and  Tully's  tongue. 

I  shall  not  stop  to  dwell  on  these. 

But  be  as  epic  as  I  please, 

And  plunge  at  once  in  incdias  res. 

To  prove  the  privilege  I  plead, 

I'll  quote  some  Greek  I  cannot  read  ; 

Stunned  by  Authority,  you  yield, 

And  I,  not  reason,  keep  the  field. 

Long  was  Society  o'er-run 
By  Whist,  that  desolating  Hun  ; 
Long  did  Quadrille  ^  despotic  sit, 
That  Vandal  of  colloquial  wit ; 
And  Conversation's  setting  light 
Lay  half  obscured  in  Gothic  night. 
At  length  the  mental  shades  decline  ; 
Colloquial  wit  begins  to  shine  ; 
'     Genius  prevails,  and  Conversation 
Emerges  into  Reformation. 
The  vanquished  triple  crown  to  you, 
Boscawen  sage,  bright  Montagu, 
Divided  fell  ;  your  cares  in  haste 

Rescued  the  ravaged  realms  of  Taste. 
And  Lyttelton's  accomplished  name, 

And  witty  Pulteney,  shared  the  fame ; 

The  men  not  bound  by  pedant  rules, 

Nor  ladies  Prccieuses  ridicules ; 

For  polished  Walpole  showed  the  way, 

Hew  Wits  may  be  both  learn'd  and  gay  ; 

And  Carter  taught  the  female  train 

The  deeply  wise  are  never  vain  ; 

And  she,  who  Shakspeare's  wrongs  redressed. 

Proved  that  the  brightest  are  the  best. 

This  just  deduction  still  they  drew, 

And  well  they  practised  what  they  knew. 

Nor  taste  nor  wit  deserves  applause, 

Unless,  still  true  to  critic  laws, 

Good  Sense,  of  faculties  the  best, 

Inspire  and  regulate  the  rest. 

1  Seneca  says,  that  in  his  time  the  Romans  were  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of 
luxury  that  the  mullet  was  reckoned  stale  which  did  not  die  in  the  hands  of 
the  guest.  * 

^  A  game  at  cards. 


HANNAH  MORE.  261 

Oh  how  unlike  the  wit  that  fell, 
Rambouillet,  at  thy  quaint  hotel  ; 
Where  point,  and  turn,  and  equivoque, 
Distorted  every  word  they  spoke  ! 
All  so  intolerably  bright, 
Plain  Common  Sense  was  put  to  flight  ; 
Each  speaker  so  ingenious  ever, 
'Twas  tiresome  to  be  quite  so  clever. 
There  twisted  Wit  forgot  to  please, 
And  Mode  and  Figure  banished  ease  ; 
No  votive  altar  smoked  to  thee, 
Chaste  Queen,  divine  Simplicity  ; 
But  forced  Conceit  which  ever  fails, 
And  stiff  Antithesis,  prevails. 
Uneasy  rivalry  destroys 
Society's  unlaboured  joys. 
Nature,  of  stilts  and  fetters  tired. 
Impatient  from  the  Wits  retired  ; 
Long  time  the  exile  houseless  strayed, 
Till  Sevigne  i^eceived  the  maid. 

Though  here  she  comes  to  bless  our  isle, 
Not  universal  is  her  smile. 

Muse  !  snatch  the  lyre  which  Cambridge  strung, 
When  he  the  empty  ball-room  sung  ; 
'Tis  tuned  above  thy  pitch,  I  doubt, 
And  thou  no  music  wouldst  draw  out ; 
Yet  in  a  lower  note  presume 
To  sing  the  full,  dull  Drawing-room.^ 

Where  the  dire  Circle  keeps  its  station. 
Each  common  phrase  is  an  oration  ; 
And  cracking  fans,  and  whispering  Misses, 
Compose  their  Conversation  blisses. 
The  Matron  marks  the  goodly  show, 
WHiile  the  tall  daughter  eyes  the  Beau — 
Tile  frigid  Beau  !  Ah  !  luckless  fair, 
'Tis  not  for  you  that  studied  air  ; 
Ah  !  not  for  you  that  sidelong  glance, 
And  all  that  charming  nonchalance  ; 
Ah  !  not  for  you  the  three  long  hours' 
He  worshipped  the  "  Cosmetic  powers  ;  " 
That  fmishetl  head  which  breathes  perfume, 
And  kills  tlie  nerves  of  half  the  room  ; 
And  all  the  murders  meant  to  lie 
In  that  large,  languishing,  grey  eye. 
Desist — less  wild  the  attempt  would  be 
To  warm  the  snows  of  Rhodojie. 

1  Tlicse  grave  and  formal  p.irtics  now  sc.nrcely  exist,  having  been  swallowed 
up  in  the  reigning  raultitudinous  assemblies. 


262  HANNAH  MORE. 


Too  cold  to  feel,  too  proud  to  feign, 
For  him  you're  wise  and  fair  in  vain  ; 
In  vain  to  charm  him  you  intend, — 
Self  is  his  object,  aim,  and  end. 

Chill  shade  of  that  affected  Peer 
Who  dreaded  Mirth,  come  safely  here  ! 
For  here  no  vulgar  joy  effaces 
Thy  rage  for  polish,  to7i,  and  graces. 
Cold  Ceremony's  leaden  hand 
Waves  o'er  the  room  her  poppy  wand. 
Arrives  the  stranger  ;  every  guest 
Conspires  to  torture  the  distressed. 
At  once  they  rise.      So  have  I  seen — 
You  guess  the  simile  I  mean  ; 
Take  what  comparison  you  please, 
The  crowded  streets,  the  swarming  bees, 
The  pebbles  on  the  shores  that  lie, 
The  stars  which  form  the  galaxy  ; 
These  serve  to  embellish  what  is  said, 
And  show,  besides,  that  one  has  read. 
At  once  they  rise — the  astonished  guest 
Back  in  a  corner  slinks,  distressed  ; 
Scared  at  the  many  bowing  round, 
'  And  shocked  at  her  own  voice's  soimd  ; 
Forgot  the  thing  she  meant  to  say, 
Her  words,  half  uttered,  die  away. 
In  sweet  oblivion  down  she  sinks, 
And  of  her  next  appointment  thinks. 
While  her  loud  neighbour  on  the  right 
Boasts  what  she  has  to  do  to-night  ; 
So  very  much,  you'd  swear  her  pride  is 
To  match  the  labours  of  Alcides  ; 
'Tis  true,  in  hyperbolic  measure, 
She  nobly  calls  her  labours  Plcasiar; 
In  this,  unlike  Alcmena's  son, 
She  never  means  they  should 'be  done. 
Her  fancy  of  no  limits  dreams. 
No  ne  plus  ultra  stops  her  schemes  ; 
Twelve  !  she'd  have  scorned  the  paltry  round. 
No  pillars  would  have  marked  her  bound  ; 
Caipe  and  Abyla  in  vain 
Had  nodded  cross  the  opposing  main  ; 
A  circumnavigator  she 
On  Toil's  illimitable  sea. 

Wc  pass  the  pleasures  vast  and  various 
Of  Routs,  not  social  but  gregarious  ; 
Where  high  heroic  self-denial 
Sustains  jicr  self-inflicted  trial. 


HANNAH  MOKE.  26 


J 


Day  labourers  !  what  an  easy  life, 
To  feed  ten  children  and  a  wife  ! 
No — I  may  juster  pity  spare 
For  the  ///>/}/  labourer's  keener  care  ; 
And,  pleased,  to  gentler  scenes  retreat, 
Where  Conversation  holds  her  seat. 

Small  were  that  art  which  would  ensure 
The  Circle's  boasted  quadrature  ! 
See  Vesey's  ^  plastic  genius  make 
A  circle  every  figure  take  ; 
Nay,  shapes  and  forms  which  would  defy 
All  science  of  Geometry  ; 
Isosceles  and  Parallel, 
Names  hard  to  speak  and  hard  to  spell ! 
The  enchantress  waved  her  wand  and  spoke  ! 
Pier  potent  wand  the  Circle  broke  ; 
The  social  spirits  hover  round. 
And  bless  the  liberated  ground. 
Ask  you  what  charms  this  gift  dispense? 
'Tis  the  strong  spell  of  Common  Sense. 
Away  dull  Ceremony  flew, 
And  with  her  bore  Detraction  too. 

Not  only  Geometric  Art 
Does  this  presiding  power  impart ; 
But  chemists  too,  who  want  the  essence 
Which  makes  or  mars  all  coalescence, 
Of  her  the  secret  rare  might  get 
How  different  kinds  amalgamate  : 
And  he  who  wilder  studies  chose, 
Find  here  a  new  metempsychose  ; 
How  forms  can  other  forms  assume, 
W^ilhiu  her  Pythagoric  room  ; 
Or  be,  and  stranger  is  the  event. 
The  '-ery  things  which  Nature  meant, 
Nor  bcrive,  by  art  and  affectation. 
To  cross  their  genuine  destination. 
Here  sober  Duchesses  are  seen, 
Chaste  Wits,  and  Critics  void  of  spleen  ; 
Physicians  fraught  with  real  science. 
And  Whigs  and  Tories  in  alliance  ; 
Poets  fulfuling  Christian  duties, 
Just  Lawyers,  reasonable  Beauties  ,• 
Bishops  who  preach,  and  Peers  who  pay, 
And  Countesses  who  seldom  play; 
Learn'd  Antiquaries,  who,  from  college, 
Reject  the  rust  and  bring  the  knowledge  ; 

1  This  nmiable  lady  was  remarkable  for  her  talent  in  breaking  the  formality  of 
a  circle,  by  inviting  her  parties  to  forra  themselves  into  little  separate  £roii;is. 


26 1  HANNAH  MORE. 


And,  hear  it,  age,  believe  it,  youth, — 
Polemics  really  seeking  truth  ; 
And  Travellers  of  that  rare  tribe 
Who've  seat  the  countries  they  describe  ; 
Who  studied  there,  so  strange  their  plan, 
Not  plants  nor  lierbs  alone,  but  man  ; 
(While  Travellers  of  other  notions 
Scale  mountain-tops,  and  traverse  oceans. 
As  if,  so  much  these  themes  engross, 
The  study  of  mankind  was  moss) ; 
Ladies  who  point,  nor  think  me  partial, 
An  epigram  as  well  as  Martial, 
Yet  in  all  female  worth  succeed 
As  well  as  those  who  cannot  read. 

Right  pleasant  were  the  task,  I  ween, 
To  name  the  groups  which  fill  the  scene. 
But  Rhyme's  of  such  fastidious  nature. 
She  proudly  scorns  all  nomenclature  ; 
Nor  grace  our  Northern  names  her  lips, 
Like  Homer's  catalogue  of  ships. 

Once — faithful  Memory!  heave  a  sigh, — 
Here  Roscius  gladdened  every  eye. 
Why  comes  not  Maro  ? — Far  from  town. 
He  rears  the  urn  to  Taste,  and  Brown ; 
Plants  cypress  round  the  tomb  of  Gray, 
Or  decks  his  English  Garden  gay ; 
Whose  mingled  sweets  exhale  perfume, 
And  promise  a  perennial  bloom. ^ 
Here  rigid  Cato,  awful  Sage  ! 
Bold  Censor  of  a  thoughtless  age. 
Once  dealt  his  pointed  moral  round. 
And  not  unheeded  fell  the  sound  ; 
The  Muse  his  honoured  memory  weeps, 
For  Cato  now  with  Roscius  sleeps. 
Here  once  Hortensius^  loved  to  sit. 
Apostate  now  from  social  wit  : 
Ah  !  why  in  wrangling  senates  M'aste 
The  noblest  parts,  the  happiest  taste  ? 
W' hy  democratic  thunders  wield. 
And  quit  the  Muses'  calmer  field  ? 
Taste  thou  the  gentler  joys  they  give  ; 
With  Horace  and  with  Lselius  live. 

Hail,  Conversation,  soothing  power. 
Sweet  Goddess  of  the  social  hour  ! 

1  ["  Perennial,"  with  a  difference.  Many  readers  of  the  present  day  may  re- 
quire to  be  informed  that  "  Maro,"  authorof  The  English  Garden,  was  Mason. 
"  Roscius  "  and  "  Cato"  stand,  I  suppose,  for  Garrick  and  Johnson]. 

2  This  was  written  in  the  year  1787,  when  Mr.  Edmund  Durke  had  joined 
the  then  opposition. 


HANNAH  MORE.  265 


Not  with  more  heart-felt  warmth,  at  least, 

Does  Lcelius  bend,  thy  true  High  Priest, 

Than  I,  the  lowest  of  thy  train, 

These  field-flowers  bring  to  deck  thy  fane. 

Who  to  thy  shrine  like  him  can  haste, 

With  warmer  zeal  or  purer  taste  ? 

Oh  may  thy  worship  long  prevail, 

And  thy  true  votaries  never  fail  ! 

Long  may  thy  polished  altars  blaze 

With  wax-lights'  undiminished  rays  ! 

Still  be  thy  nightly  offerings  paid, 

Lribations  large  of  lemonade  ! 

On  silver  vases  loaded,  rise 

The  biscuits'  ample  sacrifice  ! 

Nor  be  the  milk-white  streams  forgot 

Of  thirst-assuaging,  cool  orgeat ; 

Rise,  incense  pure  from  fragrant  Tea, 

Delicious  incense,  worthy  Thee  ! 

Hail,  Conversation,  heavenly  fair, 
Thou  bliss  of  life  and  balm  of  care  ! 
Still  may  thy  gentle  reign  extend. 
And  taste  with  wit  and  science  blend. 
Soft  polisher  of  rugged  man  ! 
Refiner  of  the  social  plan  ! 
For  thee,  best  solace  of  his  toil, 
The  sage  consumes  his  midnight  oil  ; 
And  keeps  late  vigils,  to  produce 
Materials  for  thy  future  use, — 
Calls  forth  the  else  neglected  knowledge 
Of  School,  of  Travel,  and  of  College. 
If  none  behold,  ah  !  wherefore  fair? 
Ah  !  wherefore  wise,  if  none  must  hear  ? 
Our  intellectual  ore  must  shine, 
Not  slumber  idly  in  the  mine. 
Let  Education's  moral  mint 
The  noblest  images  imprint  ; 
Let  Taste  her  curious  touchstone  hold, 
To  try  if  standard  be  the  gold  ; 
But  'tis  thy  commerce,  Conversation, 
Must  give  it  use  by  circulation  ; 
That  noblest  commerce  of  mankind, 
Whose  precious  merchandise  is  Mind. 

What  stoic  traveller  would  try 
A  sterile  soil  and  parching  sky. 
Or  dare  the  intemperate  Northern  zone, 
If  what  he  .saw  must  ne'er  be  known? 
l'"or  tills  he  bids  his  home  farewell  j 
'J"hc  joy  of  seeing  is  to  tell. 


266  HANNAH  MORE. 

Trust  me,  lie  never  would  have  stirred, 
Were  he  forbid  to  speak  a  word ; 
And  Curiosity  would  sleep, 
If  her  own  secrets  she  must  keep. 
The  bliss  of  telling  what  is  past 
Becomes  her  rich  reward  at  last. 
Who'd  mock  at  death,  at  danger  smile, 
To  steal  one  peep  at  father  Nile — 
Who,  at  Palmyra  risk  his  neck, 
Or  search  the  ruins  of  Balbec  — 
If  these  must  hide  old  Nilus'  fount, 
Nor  Libyan  tales  at  home  recount. 
If  those  must  sink  their  learned  labour. 
Nor  with  their  ruins  treat  a  neighbour  ? 
Range — study — think — do  all  we  can, 
Colloquial  pleasures  are  for  man. 

Yet  not  from  low  desire  to  shine 
Does  Genius  toil  in  learning's  mine  | 
Not  to  indulge  in  idle  vision, 
But  strike  new  light  by  strong  collision. 
Of  Conversation,  wisdom's  friend, 
This  is  the  object  and  the  end, — 
Of  moral  truth,  man's  proper  science, 
With  sense  and  learnmg  in  alliance, 
To  search  the  depths,  and  thence  produce 
What  tends  to  practice  and  to  use. 
And  next  in  value  we  shall  find 
What  mends  the  taste  and  forms  the  mind- 
If  high  those  truths  in  estimation 
Whose  search  is  crowned  with  demonstration, 
To  these  assign  no  scanty  praise. 
Our  taste  which  clear,  our  views  which  raise. 
For,  grant  that  mathematic  truth 
Best  balances  the  mind  of  Youth, 
Yet  scarce  the  truth  of  Taste  is  found 
To  grow  from  principles  less  sound. 

O'er  books  tlie  mind  inactive  lies. 
Books,  tlie  mind's  food,  not  exercise  ! 
Her  vigorous  wing  she  scarcely  feels. 
Till  use  the  latent  strength  reveals. 
Her  slumbering  energies  called  forth, 
She  rises,  conscious  of  her  worth  ; 
And,  at  her  new-found  powers  elated, 
Thinks  them  not  roused,  but  new-created. 

Enlightened  spirits!  you  who  know 
What  charms  from  polished  converse  flow. 
Speak,  for  you  can,  the  pure  delight 
When  kindling  sympathies  unite  ; 


HANNAH  MORE.  267 


When  correspondent  tastes  impart 

Communion  sweet  from  heart  to  heart. 

You  ne'er  the  cold  gradations  need 

Which  vulgar  souls  to  union  lead; 

No  dry  discussion  to  unfold 

The  meaning  caught  ere  well  'tis  told. 

In  taste,  in  learning,  wit,  or  science. 

Still  kindled  souls  demand  alliance  ; 

Each  in  the  other  joys  to  find 

The  image  answering  to  his  mind. 

But  sparks  electric  only  strike 

On  souls  electrical  alike. 

The  flash  of  Intellect  expires, 

Unless  it  meet  congenial  fires  : 

The  language  to  the  Elect  alone 

Is, ,like  the  Mason's  mystery,  known; 

In  vain  the  unerring  sign  is  made 

To  him  who  is  not  of  the  Trade. 

What  lively  pleasure  to  divine 

The  thought  implied,  the  hinted  line, 

To  feel  allusion's  artful  force. 

And  trace  the  image  to  its  source  ! 

Quick  Memory  blends  her  scattered  rays, 

Till  Fancy  kindles  at  the  blaze  ; 

The  works  of  ages  start  to  view, 

And  ancient  wit  elicits  new.  , 

But,  wit  and  parts  if  thus  we  praise, 
What  nobler  altars  should  we  raise. 
Those  sacrifices  could  we  see 
Which  Wit,  O  Virtue  !  makes  to  thee  ! 
At  once  the  rising  thought  to  dash, 
To  quench  at  once  the  bursting  flash, 
The  shining  mischief  to  subdue. 
And  lose  the  praise,  and  pleasure  too  ! 
Though  Venus'  self,  could  you  detect  her, 
Imlniing  with  her  richest  nectar 
The  thought  unchaste — to  check  that 

thought. 
To  spurn  a  fame  so  dearly  bought  ; 
This  is  high  Principle's  control  ! 
This  is  true  continence  of  soul ! 
Blush,  heroes,  at  your  cheap  renown, 
A  vanquished  realm,  a  plundered  town! 
Your  conquests  were  to  gain  a  name, — 
This  conquest  triumphs  over  Fame  ; 
So  pure  its  essence  'twere  destroyed 
If  kncjwn,  and  if  commended  void. 
Amidst  the  brightest  truths  believed, 
Amidst  the  fairest  deeds  achievctl, 


268  HANNAH  MORE. 


Shall  stand  recorded  and  admired 
That  Virtue  sunk  what  Wit  inspired ! 

But  let  the  lettered  and  the  fair, 
And  chiefly  let  the  Wit,  beware  ; 
You,  whose  warm  spirits  never  fail. 
Forgive  the  hint  which  ends  my  tale. 
Oh  shun  the  perils  which  attend 
On  wit,  on  warmth,  and  heed  your  Friend. 
Though  Science  nursed  you  in  her  bowers, 
Though  Fancy  crown  your  brow  with  flov\'crs, 
Each  thought  though  bright  Invention  fill, 
Though  Attic  bees  each  word  distil ; 
Yet,  if  one  gracious  power  refuse 
Her  gentle  influence  to  infuse" ; 
If  she  withhold  her  magic  spell, 
Nor  in  the  social  circle  dwell ; 
In  vain  shall  listening  crowds  approve, — 
They'll  praise  you,  but  they  will  not  love. 
"  What  is  this  power  you're  loth  to  mention. 
This  charm,  this  witchcraft  ?" — 'Tis  Attention  : 
Mute  Angel,  yes  ;  thy  looks  dispense 
The  silence  of  intelligence  ; 
Thy  graceful  form  I  well  discern, 
In  act  to  listen  and  to  learn. 
'Tis  thou  for  talents  shalt  obtain 
That  pardon  Wit  would  hope  in  vain. 
Thy  wondrous  power,  thy  secret  charm. 
Shall  Envy  of  her  sting  disarm. 
Thy  silent  flattery  soothes  our  spirit, 
And  we  forgive  eclipsing  merit ; 
Our  jealous  souls  no  longer  burn, 
Nor  hate  thee,  though  thou  shine  in  turn  ; 
The  sweet  atonement  screens  the  fault, 
And  love  and  praise  are  cheaply  bought. 

With  mild  complacency  to  hear. 
Though  somewhat  long  the  tale  appear, — 
The  dull  relation  to  attend 
Which  mars  the  story  you  could  mend ; 
'Tis  more  than  wit,  'tis  moral  beauty, 
'Tis  pleasure  rising  out  of  duty. 
Nor  vainly  think  the  time  you  waste, 
When  temper  triumphs  over  taste. 


DIBDIN.  269 


CHARLES  DIBDIN. 

[Born  at  Dibden,  Southampton,  in  1745  ;  died  in  London  in  1814.  _  In  boy- 
hood he  was  placed  under  the  organist  of  Winchester  Cathedral.  Going  after- 
wards to  London,  he  wrote  part  of  the  music  for  The  Maid  of  the  Mill,  and 
himself  acted  in  that  opera.  Love  in  a  Village  and  many  other  operas  fol- 
lowed ;  in  several,  such  as  The  Watertnaii,  Dibdm  wrote  both  words  and 
music.  In  1788  he  appeared  in  a  monodramatic  entertainment  of  his  own  com- 
position, named  The  Whim  of  the  Mojiient,  or  NciUire  in  Little.  He  finally 
retired  on  a  government  pension  of  ;^2oo,  well  earned  by  his  thoroughly  British 
and  popular  strains,  but  not  long  paid  in  full.  The  nautical  turn  which  is  so 
distinctive  of  Dibdin's  songs  was  caught  by  him  from  a  brother,  a  master  of  a 
merchant-vessel.  One  of  the  song-writer's  sons,  also  named  Charles,  wrote 
many  other  ditties  of  similar  characterj. 

JACK  AT  THE  OPERA. 

At  Wapping  I  landed,  and  called  to  hail  Mog  ; 

She  had  just  shaped  her  course  to  the  play  : 
Of  two  rums  and  one  water  I  ordered  my  grog, 

And  to  speak  her  soon  stood  under  weigh. 
But  the  Haymarket  I  for  old  Drury  mistook, 

Like  a  lubber  so  raw  and  so  soft ; 
Half  a  George  handed  out,  at  the  change  did  not  look, 

Manned  the  ratlins,  and  went  up  aloft. 

As  I  mounted  to  one  of  the  uppermost  tiers, 

With  many  a  coxcomb  and  flirt, 
Such  a  damnable  squalling  saluted  my  ears 

I  thought  there'd  been  somebody  hurt  ; 
But  the  devil  a  bit — 'twas  your  outlandish  rips 

Singing  out  with  their  lanterns  of  jaws  ; 
You'd  ha'  swored  you'd  been  taking  of  one  of  they  trips 

'Mongst  the  Caffres  or  wild  Catabaws. 

"  What's  the  play.  Ma'am  ?"  says  I,  to  a  good-natured  tit. 

"The  play  !  'tis  the  uproar,  you  quiz." 
"  My  timbers,"  cried  I,  "  the  right  name  on't  you've  hit. 

For  the  devil  an  uproar  it  is." 
For  they  pipe  and  they  squeal,  now  alow,  now  aloft ; 

If  it  wa'nt  for  the  petticoat  gear. 
With  their  squeaking  so  mollyish,  tender,  and  soft. 

One  should  scarcely  know  ma'am  fiom  mounseer. 

Next  at  kicking  and  dancing  (hey  took  a  long  spell, 

I     All  springing  and  boundmg  so  neat, 

And  spessiously  one  curious  Madamaselle, — 

Oh  she  daintily  handled  her  feet  ! 
But  she  hopped,  and  site  sprawled,  and  she  spun  round  so  queer, 

'Twas,  you  see,  rather  oddish  to  me  ; 
And  so  I  sung  out,  "  Pray  be  decent,  my  dear  ; 

Consider  I'm  just  come  from  sea. 


27°  DIB  DIM. 


'■  'Taint  an  Englishman's  taste  to  have  none  of  these  goes  ; 

So  away  to  the  playliouse  I'll  jog, 
Leaving  all  your  fine  Bantums  and  Ma'am  Parisoes, 

For  old  Billy  Shakspeare  and  Mog." 
So  I  made  for  the  theatre,  and  hailed  my  dear  spouse  ; 

She  smiled  as  she  sawed  me  approach  ; 
And,  when  I'd  shook  hands  and  saluted  her  bows, 

We  to  Wapping  set  sail  in  a  coach. 


ONE. 


Up  the  Mediterranin, 

One  day  was  explaining 
The  chaplain  and  I  about  poets  a:nd  bards  ; 

For  I'm  pretty  disarning, 

And  loves  about  laming 
To  know,  and  all  notions  that  such  things  regards. 
Then  to  hear  him  sing  out  'bout  the  islands  around, 
Tell  their  outlandish  names,  call  them  all  classic  ground, 
Where  the  old  ancient  poets  all  formerly  messed, 
And  wrote  about  love  and  the  girls  they  caressed  ; 
Swore  they  thought  'em  all  goddesses,  creatures  divine  ; — 
I  thinks  that  he  said  each  old  gemman  had  nine. 

Cried  I,  "  Well  said,  old  ones  ! 

These  poets  were  bold  ones  ; 
But  everything's  vanity  under  the  sun. 

Love's  as  good  sport  as  any  ; 

But  nine's  eight  too  many  ; — 
I  have  one  worth  all  nine,  and  my  Nancy's  that  one.'' 

Then  we  read,  for  their  wishes, 

They  turned  to  queer  fishes, 
To  cocks  and  to  bulls,  in  some  verses  they  call 

Ovid  Metaramorphus  ; 

And  one  Mr.  Orphus 
Went  to  hell  for  his  wife — but  that's  nothing  at  all. 
Some  figary  each  hour  set  these  codgers  agog  ; 
Old  Nackron  swigged  off  his  allowance  of  grog  ; 
Master  Jove  had  his  fancies  and  fine  falderals, — 
What  a  devil  that  god  was  for  following  the  gals  ! 
But  what  makes  the  curisest  part  of  their  lives, 
They  were  always  a-chasing  of  other  men's  wives. 

What  nonsense  and  folly  ! 

'Tis  quite  melancholy 
That  a  man  can't  be  blessed  till  his  neighbour's  undone  ; 

Why,  'tis  wicked  to  ax  'em  ! 

Take  the  world,  that's  my  maxum, 
So  one  be  left  me,  and  my  Nancy  that  one. 


-    RICHARD  BRINSLE  Y  SHERIDA  N.  271 

Then  we'd  hot  work  between  us 

'Bout  Graces  and  Wenus, 
With  their  fine  red  and  white,  and  their  eyes  full  of  darts. 

"To  be  sure,  pretty  faces 

Be  well  in  their  places. 
But,  your  reverence,  in  love  there  be  such  things  as  hearts  '. 
'Tis  unmanly  to  chatter  behind  people's  back, 
But  'tis  pretty  well  known  that  the  lady's  a  crack. 
Besides,  if  these  things  about  beauty  be  true. 
That  there  is  but  one  Wenus,  why,  I  says  there's  two  ! 
Say  there  is  but  one  Nancy,  you'll  then  not  mistake. 
For  she's  mine,  and  I'd  sail  the  world  round  for  her  sake. 

Then  no  further  norations, 

Or  chatterifications. 
Bout  Wenus,  and  Graces,  and  such  pretty  fun. 

That  so  runs  in  your  fancy  ; — 

Just  see  but  my  Nancy, 
You'll  find  all  their  charms  spliced  together  in  one." 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

[Born  in  Dublin,  September  1751  ;   died  in  London,  7  July  i8i6.] 

ODE  TO  SCANDAL. 

"O  THOU  whose  all-consoling  power 

Can  calm  each  female  breast. 
Whose  touch,  in  Spleen's  most  vapourish  hour, 

Can  soothe  our  cares  to  rest : 

"Thee,  I  invoke  !  Great  Genius,  hear  ! 

Pity  a  Lady's  sighs! 
Unless  thy  kind  relief  be  near, 

Poor  Colvileia  dies  ! 

"Haste  thee  then,  and  with  Ihce  bring 

Many  a  liltle  venomed  sting, 

Many  a  tale  that  no  one  knows 

Of  sliall-be-nameless  Belles  and  Beaux, 

Just  imported — curtain-lectures, 

Winks  and  nods,  and  shrewd  conjectures, 

Unknown  marriages,  some  twenty, 

Private  child-bed  linen  plenty  ; 
And  horns  just  fitted  to  some  people's  heads, 
And  certain  powdered  coats,  and  certain  tumbled  beds, 

"Teach  me,  powerful  Genius,  teach 

Thine  own  mysterious  art, 
Safe  from  Retaliation's  reacli 

To  throw  Destruction's  dart. 


27?  RICHARD  BRIA'SLEY  SHERIDAN. 

So  shall  my  hand  an  altar  raise 
Sacred  to  thy  transcendent  praise, 
And  daily  with  assiduous  care 
Some  grateful  sacrifice  prepare. 

"  The  first  informations 

Of  lost  reputations 
A.S  offerings  to  thee  I'll  consign ; 

And  the  earliest  news 

Of  surprised  billets-doux 
Shall  constant  be  served  at  thy  shrine. 

Intrigues  by  the  score, 

Never  heard  of  before, 
Shall  the  sacrifice  daily  augment ; 

And  by  each  Morning  Post 

Some  favourite  toast 
A  victim  to  thee  shall  be  sent. 

"  Heavens!  methinks  I  see  thy  train 
Lightly  tripping  o'er  the  plain  : 
All  the  alphabet  I  view, 
Stepping  forwards  two  by  two, — 
Hush  !  for  as  they  coupled  walk, 
Sure  I  hear  the  letters  talk  ! 

Though,  slowly  whispering,  half  they  smother 

The  well-concerted  tales  they  tell  of  one  another. 
'  Lord  !   who'd  have  thought  our  cousin  D. 
Could  think  of  marrying  Mrs.  E.? 
True,  I  don't  like  such  things  to  tell ; 
But,  faith,  I  pity  Mrs.  L., 
And,  was  I  her,  the  bride  to  ve.K 
I  would  intrigue  with  Mr.  X. 
But  they  do  say  that  Charlotte  U., 
With  Fanny  M.  and  we  know  who, 
Occasioned  all,  for  you  must  know 
They  set  their  caps  at  Mr.  O.  ; 
And  as  he  courted  Mrs.  E., 
They  thought,  if  she'd  have  cousin  D., 
That  things  might  be  by  Colonel  A. 
Tust  brought  about  in  their  own  way.' 

Oh !  how  the  pleasing  style  regales  my  ear :  .  .  . 

But  what  new  forms  are  those  which  now  appear  ? 

"See  yonder  in  the  thickest  throng, 
Designing  Envy  stalks  along, 

Big  with  malicious  laughter  : 
Fiction  and  Cunning  swell  her  train. 
While  stretching  far  behind, — in  vain 

Poor  Truth  comes  panting  after  ! 


RTCHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.  273 

"Now,  now  indeed,  I  burn  with  sacred  fires, — 
'Tis  Scandal's  self  that  every  thought  inspires ! 
I  feel,  all-potent  Genius!  now  I  feel 
Thy  working  magic  through  each  artery  steal ; 

Each  moment  to  my  prying  eyes 

Some  fresh-disfigured  beauties  rise  ; 

Each  moment  I  perceive  some  flaw 

That  e'en  Ill-nature  never  saw. 

"But  hush!  some  airy  whisperer  hints, 

In  accents  wisely  faint, 
'  Divine  Cleora  rather  squints : 

Maria  uses  paint  I 

"  '  That  though  some  fops  of  Coelia  prate. 

Yet  be  not  hers  the  praise  ; 
For,  if  she  should  be  passing  straight, 

Hem !  she  may  thank  her  stays. 

"  'Each  fool  of  Delia's  figure  talks, 

And  celebrates  her  fame  ; 
But,  for  my  part,  whene'er  she  walks, 

I  vow  I  think  she's  lame. 

"  *  And  see  Ma'am  Harriet  toss  her  head  ; 

Lawk  !  how  the  creature  stares  ! 
Well,  well,  thank  Heavens,  it  can't  be  said 

I  give  myself  such  airs  ! ' 

**  But  soft ! — what  figiu-e's  this  I  now  see  come. 
Whose  awful  form  strikes  even  Scandal  dumb  ? 
Ah  me  !  The  blood  forsakes  my  trembling  cheek, 
While  sternly  thus,  methinks,  I  hear  her  speak : 
*  Peace  !  snarling  woman,  peace, 
'Tis  Candour  bids  thee  cease  : 
Candour,  at  whose  insulted  name 
Even  thy  face  shall  burn  with  shame. 
Too  long  I've  silent  seen 
The  venom  of  thy  spleen. 
Too  long  with  secret  pain 
Beheld  black  Scandal's  reign. 
But  now,  with  indignation  stung, 
Justice  demands  my  willing  tongue, 
And  bids  me  drag  the  lurking  fiend  to  liglit. 
And  hold  the  deeds  of  darkness  up  to  siglu. — 
Look  on  this  prospect ;  and  if  e'er  thy  brow 
Can  feel  Compunction's  sickening  influence — now — 

"  '  Mark  yonder  weeping  maid, 

Sadly  deserted,  laid 

Beside  tliat  mournful  willow; 


;  74  RICHARD  BRINSLE  V  SHERIDAN. 

There,  every  day,  in  silent  woe, 
She  bids  her  tears  incessant  flow, 
And  every  night  forlornly  pining, 
Mute,  on  her  lily  hand  reclining. 
Bedews  her  waking  pillow- 

"  '  Sweet  girl !  she  was  once  most  enchantingiy  gay  ; 

Each  youth  owned  her  charms,  and  acknowledged  their  sway. 

No  arts  did  she  use  to  acquire  every  grace  ; 

'Twas  good  humour  alone  that  enlivened  her  face; 

Pure  nature  had  leave  in  her  actions  to  speak  ; 

The  spirit  of  youth  gave  the  blush  to  her  cheek  ; 

And  her  looks  uninstructed  her  thoughts  would  impart, 

For  her  eyes  only  flashed  from  the  warmth  of  her  heart. 

Herself  undesigning,  no  scheme  she  suspected  ; 

Ne'er  dreaming  of  ambush,  defence  she  neglected. 

With  the  youth  that  she  loved,  at  the  moon's  silver  hour^ 

In  confidence  tender,  she  stole  to  the  bower. 

There  he  hoped  his  designs  to  have  basely  obtained, 

But  she  spurned  at  the  insult  lier  virtue  sustained  ; 

And  he,  in  revenge  for  his  baffled  endeavour. 

Gave  a  hint — 'twas  enough — she  was  ruined  for  ever  ! 

A  thousand  kind  females  the  story  augmented  ; 

Each  day,  grinning  Envy  additions  invented. 

Till  insatiate  Malice  had  gained  all  her  ends, 

Had  robbed  her  of  character — happiness — friends. 
And  now,  poor  maid,  alone, 
Shunned  as  a  pest,  she  makes  her  moan. 
And,  in  unheard  despair. 

Yields,  all  resigned  to  soul-consuming  Care  ; 
And  oftentimes  her  maddening  brain 
Turns  with  its  feverish  weight  of  pain, 
And  then  a  thousand  childish  things 
The  pretty  mad  one  rudely  sings. 
Or  mute  on  the  pathway  she  gazeSi 
And  weeps  as  she  scatters  her  daisies  ; 
Or  else,  in  a  strain  more  distractedly  loud, 

She  chaunts  the  sad  thoughts  of  her  fancy,' 
And  shivers  and  sings  of  her  cold  shroud  : ' 

'Alas    alas!  poor  Nancy  i' 
'  Nay,  weep  not  now  :  'tis  now  too  late ! 
Thy  friendship  might  have  stopped  her  fate. 

Rather  now  hide  thy  head  in  conscious  shame. 
Thy  tongue  too  blabbed  the  lie  that  damned  her  fame. 
Such  are  the  triumphs  Scandal  claims, — 
Triumphs  derived  from  ruined  names: 
Such  as  to  generous  minds  unknown. 
And  honest  minds  would  blush  to  own. 
Nor  think,  vain  woman,  while  you  sneer 
At  others'  faults,  that  you  are  clear. 


CHATTERTON.  275 


No :— turn  your  back — you  undergo 
The  malice  you  toothers  show; 
And  soon,  by  some  malicious  tale  o'erthrown. 
Like  Nancy,  fall,  unpitied  or  unknown.'  " 

Oh !  then,  ye  blooming  fair,  attend ; 
And  take  kind  Candour  for  your  friend  j 
Nor  forfeit,  for  a  mean  delight, 
That  power  o'er  Man  that's  yours  by  right. 

To  Woman  every  charm  was  given 
Designed  by  all-indulgent  Heaven 

To  soften  care ; 
For  ye  were  formed  to  bless  mankind, 
To  harmonize  and  soothe  the  mind 4 
Indeed,  indeed,  ye  were. 

But,  when  from  those  sweet  lips  we  hear 
Ill-nature's  whisper,  envy's  sneer,', 

Your  power  that  moment  dies : 
Each  coxcomb  makes  your  name  his  sport, 
And  fools,  when  angry,  will  retort 

What  men  of  sense  despise. 

Leave  then  such  vain  dispiites  as  these, 
And  take  a  nobler  road  to  please ; 

Let  Candour  guide  your  way; 
So  shall  you  daily  conquests  gain, 
And  captives,  happy  in  your  chain, 

13e  proud  to  own  your  sway. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

[Born  in  Rristol,  20   November   1752  ;   committed   suicide   in    London,    25 
August  1770]. 

FEBRUARY. 

AN  ELEGY. 

Begin,  my  Muse,  the  imitative  lay  ; 

^Lonian  doxies,  sound  the  thrumming  string  ; 
Attempt  no  number  of  the  plaintive  Gray  ; 

Let  me  like  midnight  cats,  or  Collins,  sing. 

If,  in  the  trammels  of  the  doleful  line, 

The  bounding  hail  or  drilling  rain  descend. 

Come,  brooding  jNIclancholy,  jiowcr  divine, 
And  every  unformed  mass  of  words  amend. 

Now  tlie  rough  Goat  withdraws  his  curling  horns. 
And  the  cold  Watcrcr  twirls  his  circling  mop  : 

Swift  sudden  anguisli  darts  through  altering  corns, 
And  the  spruce  mercer  trembles  in  his  shop. 


2  76  CHATTERTON. 


Now  infant  authors,  maddening  for  renown, 
Extend  the  plume,  and  hum  about  the  stage, 

Procure  a  benefit,  amuse  the  town, 
And  proudly  glitter  in  a  title-page. 

Now,  wrapped  in  ninefold  fur,  his  squeamish  Grace 

Defies  the  fury  of  the  howling  storm  ; 
And,  whilst  the  tempest  whistles  round  his  face, 

Exults  to  find  his  mantled  carcase  warm. 

Now  rumbling  coaches  furious  drive  along, 

Full  of  the  majesty  of  city  dames, 
Whose  jewels,  sparkling  in  the  gaudy  throng. 

Raise  strange  emotions  and  invidious  flames. 

Now  Merit,  happy  in  the  calm  of  place. 

To  mortals  as  a  Highlander  appears, 
And,  conscious  of  the  excellence  of  lace. 

With  spreading  frogs  and  gleaming  spangles  glare 

Whilst  Envy,  on  a  tripod  seated  nigh. 

In  form  a  shoe-boy,  daubs  the  valued  fruit. 

And,  darting  lightnings  from  his  vengeful  eye, 
Raves  about  Wilkes,  and  politics,  and  Bute. 

Now  Barry,  taller  than  a  grenadier, 
Dwindles  into  a  stripling  of  eighteen  ; 

Or,  sabled  in  Othello,  breaks  the  ear, 

Exerts  his  voice,  and  totters  to  the  scene^ 

Now  Foote,  a  looking-glass  for  all  mankind, 

Applies  his  wax  lo  personal  defects  ; 
But  leaves  imtouched  the  image  of  the  mind  ; — 

His  art  no  mental  quality  reflects. 

Now  Drury's  potent  king  extorts  applause, 
And  pit,  box,  gallery,  echo  "  How  divine  !  " 

Whilst,  versed  in  all  the  drama's  mystic  laws, 
His  graceful  action  saves  the  wooden  line. 

Now— but  what  further  can  the  Muses  sing? 

Now  dropping  particles  of  water  fall  ; 
Now  vapours,  riding  on  the  north  wind's  wing, 

With  transitory  darkness  shadow  all. 

Alas  !  how  joyless  the  descriptive  theme 
When  sorrow  on  the  writer's  quiet  preys. 

And,  like  a  mouse  in  Cheshire  cheese  supreme. 
Devours  the  substance  of  the  lessening  bays  ! 

Come,  February,  lend  thy  darkest  sky, — 

There  teach  the  wintered  Muse  with  clouds  to  soar 

Come,  February,  lift  the  number  high  ; 

Let  the  .sharp  strain  like  wind  through  alleys  roar. 


CRAB  BE.  277 


Ye  channels,  wanderincf  through  the  spacious  street, 
In  hollow  murmurs  roll  the  dirt  along, 

With  inundations  wet  the  sabled  feet, 

Whilst  gouts,  responsive,  join  the  elegiac  song. 

Ye  damsels  fair,  whose  silver  voices  shrill 

Sound  through  meandering  folds  of  Echo's  horn, 

Let  the  sweet  cry  of  liberty  be  still. 

No  more  let  smoking  cakes  awake  the  morn. 

O  Winter  !  put  away  thy  snowy  pride  ; 

O  Spring  !  neglect  the  cowslip  and  the  bell  ; 
O  Summer  !  throw  thy  pears  and  plums  aside  ; 

O  Autumn  !  bid  the  grape  with  poison  swell  : — 

The  pensioned  muse  of  Johnson  is  no  more  ! 

Drowned  in  a  butt  of  wine  his  genius  lies. 
Earth,  Ocean,  Heaven,  the  wondrous  loss  deplore  ; 

The  dregs  of  Nature  with  her  glory  dies. 

What  iron  Stoic  can  suppress  the  tear? 

What  sour  reviewer  read  with  vacant  eye  ? 
What  bard  but  decks  his  literary  bier? — 

Alas  !  I  cannot  sing — I  howl — I  cry  ! 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 

[Born  at  Aldborough,  Suffolk,  24  December  1754  ;  died  at  Trowbridge,  Wilts, 
3  February  1832.  The  father  of  Crabbe  was  a  collector  of  salt-duties— a  poor 
man  with  a  large  family.  Crabbe,  after  picking  up  some  smattering  of  know- 
ledge, was  apprenticed  to  an  apothecary  ;  and  continued  for  awhile,  with  little 
encouragement,  to  act  as  a  druggist  and  country  practitioner.  In  1780  he 
boldly  broke  with  this  course  of  life,  and  came  to  London  as  a  literary  adven- 
turer :  one  poem  of  his.  Inebriety,  had  already  been  published  in  Ipswich  some 
years  before.  In  London  he  issued  The  Candidate ;  which  was  successful, 
but,  through  the  failure  of  his  bookseller,  brought  no  profit  to  the  author.  In 
desperation  he  applied  at  a  venture  to  the  statesman  Burke  for  assistance  ;  was 
kindly  received  ;  and  eventually  enabled  to  take  holy  orders.  He  became 
rector  of  Muston,  Leicestershire,  and  finally  of  Trowbridge  ;  where  he  had  once 
served  with  an  apothecary,  and  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  lady,  Miss  Elmy, 
whom  he  married.  The  Vitiate,  The  Parish  Register,  The  Borough,  and 
Tales  0/ the  Hall,  are  among  his  leading  poems.  Crabbe  was  a  man  of  solid 
worth,  upright  and  tender.  The  same  qualities  shine  in  his  writings,  which 
are  masterpieces  of  sound  strong  sense,  full  of  observation,  .shrewdness,  and 
knowledge  of  character,  chiefly  in  the  lower  or  the  middle  ranks  of  life.  They 
transfer  into  the  domain  of  narrative  some  of  the  sententious  decorum,  castigat- 
ing truth,  and  literary  propriety,  of  the  didactic  .school  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Of  course,  some  poetic  readers  will  denuir  to  a  form  of  poetry  which  is 
not  based  on  ideal  perceptions,  and  does  not  afford  any  imaginative  medium  of 
conciliation  between  life  and  beauty — or  scarcely  any,  allowance  being  made  for 
descriptive  passages  of  uncommon  force,  not  unfrequcntly  recurring :  yet  even 
these  readers  can,  on  other  grounds,  peruse  Crabbe  with  no  little  gratification!. 

THE  DUMB  ORATORS:  OR.  THE  BENEFIT  OF  SOCIETY. 

-That  all  men  .U-ould  be  cowards  if  they  dare 
Some  men,  we  know,  liave  courage  to  declare ; 
And  this  thc'life  of  many  a  hero  shows, 


278  CRABBE. 


That,  like  the  tide,  man's  courage  ebbs  and  flows. 
With  friends  and  gay  companions  round  them,  then 
Men  boldly  speak,  and  have  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
Who,  with  opponents  seated,  miss  the  aid 
Of  kind  applauding  looks,  and  grow  afraid. 
Like  timid  travellers  in  the  night,  they  fear 
The  assault  of  foes,  when  not  a  friend  is  near. 

In  contest  mighty,  and  of  conquest  proud, 
Was  Justice  Bolt,  impetuous,  warm,  and  loud  j 
His  fame,  his  prowess,  all  the  country  knew, 
And  disputants,  with  one  so  fierce,  were  few. 
He  was  a  younger  son,  for  law  designed, 
With  dauntless  look  and  persevering  mind  ; 
W^hile  yet  a  clerk,  for  disputation  famed. 
No  efforts  tired  him,  and  no  conflicts  tamed. 
Scarcely  he  bade  his  master's  desk  adieu. 
When  both  his  brothers  from  the  world  withdrew. 
An  ample  fortune  he  from  them  possessed. 
And  was  with  saving  care  and  prudence  blest. 
Now  would  he  go  and  to  the  country  give 
Example  how  an  English  squire  should  live  ; 
How  bounteous,  yet  how  frugal,  man  may  be. 
By  a  well-ordered  hospitality. 
He  would  the  I'ights  of  all  so  well  maintain 
That  none  should  idle  be,  and  none  complain. 

All  this  and  more  he  purposed — and  what  man 
Could  do  he  did  to  realize  his  plan  : 
But  time  convinced  him  that  we  cannot  keep 
A  breed  of  reasoners  like  a  flock  of  sheep  ; 
For  they,  so  far  from  following  as  we  lead, 
Make  that-  a  cause  why  they  will  not  proceed. 
Man  will  not  follow  where  a  rule  is  shown, 
But  loves  to  take  a  method  of  his  own  : 
Explain  the  way  with  all  your  care  and  skill. 
This  will  he  quit,  if  but  to  prove  he  will. — 
Yet  had  our  Justice  honour — and  the  crowd, 
Awed  by  his  presence,  their  respect  avowed. 

In  later  years  he  found  his  heart  incline, 
More  than  in  youth,  to  generous  food  and  wine ; 
But  no  indulgence  checked  the  powerful  love 
He  felt  to  teach,  to  argue,  and  reprove. 

Meetings,  or  public  calls,  he  never  missed— 
To  dictate  often,  always  to  assist. 
Oft  he  the  clergy  joined,  and  not  a  cause 
Pertained  to  them  but  lie  could  quote  the  laws  ; 
He  upon  tithes  and  residence  displayed 
A  fund  of  knowledge  for  the  hearer's  aid  ; 


CRABBE. 


And  could  on  glebe  and  farming,  wool  and  grain, 
A  long  discourse,  without  a  pause,  maintain. 

To  his  experience  and  his  native  sense 
He  joined  a  bold  imperious  eloquence  ; 
The  grave,  stern  look  of  men  informed  and  wise, 
A  full  command  of  feature,  heart,  and  eyes, 
An  awe-compelling  frown,  and  fear-inspiring  size. 
When  at  the  table,  not  a  guest  was  seen 
With  appetite  so  lingering  or  so  keen  ; 
But,  when  the  outer  man  no' more  required. 
The  inner  waked,  and  he  was  man  inspired. 
His  subjects  then  were  those  a  subject  true 
Presents  in  fairest  form  to  public  view  ; 
Df  church  and  state,  of  law,  with  mighty  strength 
Of  words  he  spoke,  in  speech  of  mighty  length. 
And  now,  into  the  vale  of  years  declined. 
He  hides  too  little  of  the  monarch-mind. 
He  kindles  anger  by  untimely  jokes. 
And  opposition  by  contempt  provokes  ; 
Mirth  he  suppresses  by  his  awful  frown, 
And  humble  spirits,  by  disdain,  keeps  down  ; 
Blamed  by  the  mild,  approved  by  the  severe, 
The  prudent  fly  him,  and  the  valiant  fear. 
For  overbearing  is  his  proud  discourse. 
And  overwhelming  of  his  voice  the  force  : 
And  overpowering  is  he  when  lie  shows 
What  floats  upon  a  mind  that  always  overflows. 

This  ready  man  at  every  meeting  rose. 
Something  to  hint,  determine,  or  propose  ; 
And  grew  so  fond  of  teaching  that  he  taught 
Those  who  instruction  needed  not  or  sought. 
Happy  our  hero  when  he  could  excite 
Some  thoughtless  talker  to  the  wordy  fight. 
Let  him  a  subject  at  his  pleasure  choose, 
Physic  or  law,  religion  or  the  muse  ; 
Oh  all  such  themes  he  was  prepared  to  shine, — 
Physician,  poet,  lawyer,  and  divine. 
Hemmed  in  by  some  tough  argument,  borne  down 
By  press  of  language  and  the  awful  frown, 
In  vain  for  mercy  shall  the  culprit  plead  ; 
His  crime  is  past,  and  sentence  must  proceed  : 
Ah  suffering  man  !  have  patience,  bear  thy  woes — 
For  lo  !  the  clock — at  ten  the  Justice  goes. 

This  powerful  man,  on  business,  or  to  please 
A  curious  taste,  or  weary  grown  of  ease. 
On  a  long  journey  travelled  many  a  mile 
Westward,  and  halted  midway  in  our  isle ; 


iSo  CRABBE. 

Content  to  view  a  city  large  and  fair, 

Though  none  had  notice  what  a  man  was  there  ! 

Silent  two  days,  he  then  began  to  long 
Again  to  try  a  voice  so  loud  and  strong  ; 
To  give  his  favourite  topics  some  new  grace, 
And  gain  some  glory  in  such  distant  place  ; 
To  reap  some  present  pleasure,  and  to  sow 
Seeds  of  fair  fame,  in  after-time  to  grow  : 
"  Here  will  men  say,  '  We  heard,  at  such  an  hour. 
The  best  of  speakers — wonderful  his  power.'  " 

Enquiry  made,  he  found  that  day  would  meet 
A  learned  club,  and  in  the  very  street. 
Knowledge  to  gain  and  give  was  the  design  ;. 
To  speak,  to  hearken,  to  debate,  and  dine. 
This  pleased  our  traveller,  for  he  felt  his  force 
In  either  way,  to  eat  or  to  discourse. 

Nothing  more  easy  than  to  gain  access 
To  men  like  tliese,  with  his  polite  address. 
So  he  succeeded,  and  first  looked  around, 
To  view  his  objects  and  to  take  his  ground  ; 
And  therefore  sdent  chose  awhile  to  sit, 
Theii  enter  boldly  by  some  lucky  hit  ; 
Some  observation  keen  or  stroke  severe, 
To  cause  some  wonder  or  excite  some  fear. 

Now,  dinner  past,  no  longer  he  suppressed 
His  strong  dislike  to  be  a  silent  guest ; 
Subjects  and  words  were  now  at  his  command — 
When  disappointment  frowned  on  all  he  planned. 
For,  hark  ! — he  heard  amazed,  on  every  side, 
His  church  insulted  and  her  priests  belied  ; 
The  laws  reviled,  the  ruling  power  abused, 
The  land  derided,  and  its  foes  excused. 
He  heard  and  pondered — What,  to  men  so  vile, 
Should  be  his  language  ? — For  his  threatening  style 
They  were  too  many  ;— if  his  speech  were  meek. 
They  would  despise  such  poor  attempts  to  speak. 
At  other  times  with  every  word  at  will, 
He  now  sat  lost,  perplexed,  astonished,  still. 

Here  were  Socinians,  Deists,  and  indeed 
All  who,  as  foes  to  England's  cluirch,  agreed  ; 
But  still  with  creeds  unlike,  and  some  without  a  creed. 
Here,  too,  fierce  friends  of  liberty  he  saw, 
Who  owned  no  prince  and  who  obey  no  law. 
There  were  reformers  of  each  different  sort, 
Foes  to  the  laws,  the  priesthood,  and  the  court  ; 
Son^e  on  their  favourite  plans  alone  intent, 


CRABBE.      -  281 


Some  purely  angry  and  malevolent. 

The  rash  were  proud  to  blame  their  country's  laws  ; 

The  vain,  to  seem  supporters  of  a  cause  ; 

One  called  for  change,  that  he  would  dread  to  see  ; 

Another  sighed  for  C}allic  liberty  ; 

And  numbers  joining  with  the  forward  crew, 

For  no  one  reason — but  that  numbers  do. 

"  How,"  said  the  Justice,  "  can  this  trouble  rise, 
This  shame  and  pain,  from  creatures  I  despise .?" 
And  Conscience  answered — "  The  prevailing  cause 
Is  thy  delight  in  listening  to  applause. 
Here,  thou  art  seated  with  a  tribe  who  spurn 
Thy  favourite  themes,  and  into  laughter  turn 
Thy  fears  and  wishes.     Silent  and  obscure, 
Thyself,  shalt  thou  the  long  harangue  endure  ; 
And  learn,  by  feeling,  what  it  is  to  force 
On  thy  unwilling  friends  the  long  discourse. 
What  though  thy  thoughts  be  just,  and  these,  it  seems. 
Are  traitors'  projects,  idiots'  empty  schemes. 
Yet  minds,  like  bodies,  crammed,  reject  their  food. 
Nor  M'ill  be  forced  and  tortured  for  their  good." 

At  length,  a  sharp,  shrewd,  sallow  man  arose, 
And  begged  he  briefly  might  his  mind  disclose  ; 
It  was  his  duty,  in  these  worst  of  times, 
To  inform  the  governed  of  their  rulers'  crimes. 
This  pleasant  subject  to  attend,  they  each 
Prepared  to  listen,  and  forbore  to  teach. 

Then,  voluble  and  fierce,  the  wordy  man 
Through  a  long  chain  of  favourite  horrors  ran  : — 
First,  of  the  Church,  from  whose  enslaving  power, 
He  was  delivered,  and  he  blessed  the  hour. 
Bishops  and  deans  and  prebendaries  all, 
He  said,  were  cattle  fattening  in  the  stall. 
Slothful  and  pursy,  insolent  and  mean. 
Were  every  bishop,  prebendary,  dean. 
And  wealthy  rector  :  curates,  poorly  paid. 
Were  only  dull  ; — he  would  not  them  upbraid. 

From  priests  he  turned  to  canons,  creeds,  and  prayers, 
Rubrics  and  rules,  and  all  our  Churcli  affairs  ; 
Ciunches  themselves,  desk,  pulpit,  altar,  all 
The  Justice  reverenced — and  pronounced  their  fall. 

Then  from  religion  Hammond  turned  his  view, 
To  give  our  Rulers  the  correction  due  ; 
Not  one  wise  action  had  these  triflers  planned  ; 
There  was,  it  seemed,  no  wisdom  in  the  land, 
Save  in  this  patriot  tribe,  who  meet  at  times 
To  show  the  statesman's  errors  and  his  crimes. 


282  CRABBE. 

Now  here  was  Justice  Bolt  compelled  to  sit, 
To  hear  the  deist's  scorn,  the  rebel's  wit, 
The  fact  mis-stated,  the  envenomed  lie  ; 
And,  staring  spell-bound,  made  not  one  reply. 

Then  were  our  Laws  abused — and,  with  the  laws, 
All  who  prepare,  defend,  or  judge  a  cause. 
"  We  have  no  lawyer  whom  a  man  can  trust," 
Proceeded  Hammond — "z/the  laws  w^ere  just ; 
But  they  are  evil ;  'tis  the  savage  state 
Is  only  good,  and  ours  sophisticate  ! 
See  the  free  crecttures  in  their  woods  and  plains. 
Where  without  laws  each  happy  monarch  reigns, 
King  of  himself — while  we  a  number  dread, 
By  slaves  commanded  and  by  dunces  led. 
Oh  let  the  name  with  either  state  agree — 
Savage  our  own  we'll  name,  and  civil  theirs  shall  be." 

The  silent  Justice  still  astonished  sat, 
And  wondered  much  whom  he  was  gazing  at. 
Twice  he  essayed  to  speak — but,  in  a  cough, 
The  faint,  indignant,  dying  speech  went  off. 
"But  who  is  this?"  thought  he — "a  demon  vile, 
With  wicked  meaning  and  a  vulgar  style  : 
Hammond  they  call  him  :  they  can  give  the  name 
Of  man  to  devils. — Why  am  I  so  tame? 
Why  crush  I  not  the  viper?" — Fear  replied, 
"  Watch  him  awhile,  and  let  his  strength  be  tried  ;  « 

He  will  be  foiled,  if  man  ;  but,  if  his  aid 
Be  from  beneath,  'tis  well  to  be  afraid." 

"We  are  called  free  !  "  said  Hammond — "doleful  times, 
When  rulers  add  their  insult  to  their  crimes  ! 
For,  should  our  scorn  expose  each  powerful  vice, 
It  would  be  libel,  and  we  pay  the  price." 

Thus  with  licentious  words  the  man  went  on. 
Proving  that  liberty  of  speech  was  gone  ; 
That  all  were  slaves— nor  had  we  better  chance 
For  better  times  than  as  allies  to  France. 

Loud  groaned  the  Stranger.     Why,  he  must  rel^ite  ; 
And  owned, — In  sorrow  for  his  country's  fate. 
"  Nay,  she  were  safe,"  the  ready  man  replied, 
"Might  patriots  rule  her,  and  could  reasoners  guide. 
When  all  to  vote,  to  speak,  to  teach,  are  free, 
Whate'er  their  creeds  or  tlieir  opinions  be  ; 
WHien  books  of  statutes  are  consumed  in  flames, 
And  courts  and  copyholds  are  empty  names  ; 
Then  will  be  times  of  joy — but,  ere  they  come, 
Havock  and  war  and  blood  must  be  our  doom." 


CRABBE.  28 


^ 


The  man  here  paused — then  loudly  for  Reform 
He  called,  and  hailed  the  prospect  of  the  storm  ; 
The  wholesome  blast,  the  fertilizing  flood — 
Peace  gained  by  tumult,  plenty  bought  with  blood. 
Sharp  means,  he  owned  ;  but,  when  the  land's  disease 
Asks  cure  complete,  no  medicines  are  like  these. 
Our  Justice  now,  more  led  by  fear  than  rage,- 
Saw  it  in  vain  with  madness  to  engage  ; 
With  imps  of  darkness  no  man  seeks  to  fight, 
Knaves  to  instruct,  or  set  deceivers  right. 
Then,  as  the  daring  speech  denounced  these  woes. 
Sick  at  the  soul,  the  grieving  Guest  arose  ; 
Quick  on  the  board  his  ready  cash  he  threw, 
And  from  the  demons  to  his  closet  flew. 
There  when  secured,  he  prayed  with  earnest  zeal 
That  all  they  wished  these  patriot-souls  might  feel. 
"Let  them  to  France,  their  darling  country,  haste, 
And  all  the  comforts  of  a  Frenchman  taste. 
Let  them  his  safety,  freedom,  pleasure  know, 
Feel  all  their  rulers  on  the  land  bestow  ; 
And  be  at  length  dismissed  by  one  unerring  blow, — 
Not  hacked  and  hewed  by  one  afraid  to  strike,  ' 
But  shorn  by  that  which  shears  all  men  alike. 
Nor,  as  in  Britain,  let  them  curse  delay 
Of  law ;  but,  borne  without  a  form  away, 
Suspected,  tried,  condemned,  and  carted,  in  a  day. 
Oh  let  them  taste  what  they  so  much  approve, 
These  strong  fierce  freedoms  of  the  land  they  love  ! " 

Home  came  our  hero,  to  forget  no  more 
The  fear  he  felt,  and  ever  must  deplore  : 
For,  though  he  quickly  joined  his  friends  again, 
And  could  with  decent  force  his  themes  maintain, 
Still  it  occurred  that,  in  a  luckless  time. 
He  failed  to  fight  with  heresy  and  crime. 
It  was  observed  his  words  were  not  so  strong, 
His  tones  so  powerful,  his  harangues  so  long, 
As  in  old  times — for  he  would  often  drop 
The  lofty  look,  and  of  a  sudden  stop  ; 
When  Conscience  whispered  that  he  once  was  still, 
And  let  the  wicked  triumph  at  their  will  J 
And  therefore  now,  when  not  a  foe  was  near, 
He  had  no  right  so  valiant  to  appear. 

Some  years  had  passed,  and  he  perceived  his  fears 
Yield  to  the  spirit  of  his  earlier  years — 
When  at  a  meeting,  with  his  friends  beside, 
He  saw  an  object  that  awaked  his  pride. 
His  shame,  wrath,  vengeance,  indignation — all 
Man's  harsher  feelings  did  that  sight  recall. 


284  CRAB  BE. 


For  lo  !  beneath  him  fixed,  our  Man  of  Law 
That  lawless  man,  the  Foe  of  Order,  saw  ; 
Once  feared,  now  scorned  ;  once  dreaded,  now  abhorred  ; 
A  wordy  man,  and  evil  every  word. 
Again  he  gazed—"  It  is,"  said  he,  "  the  same  ; 
Caught  and  secure  :  his  master  owes  him  shame." 
So  thought  our  hero,  who  each  instant  found 
His  courage  rising,  from  the  numbers  round. 

As  when  a  felon  has  escaped  and  fled, 
So  long  that  law  conceives  the  culprit  dead, 
And  back  recalled  her  myrmidons,  intent 
On  some  new  game,  and  with  a  stronger  scent ; 
Till  she  beholds  him  in  a  place  where  none 
Could  have  conceived  the  culprit  would  have  gone ; 
There  he  sits  upright  in  his  seat,  secure, 
As  one  whose  conscience  is  correct  and  pure  ; 
This  rouses  anger  for  the  old  offence. 
And  scorn  for  all  such  seeming  and  pretence : — 
So  on  this  Hammond  looked  our  hero  bold, 
Remembering  well  that  vile  offence  of  old. 
And  now  he  saw  the  rebel  dared  to  intrude 
Among  the  pure,  the  loyal,  and  the  good  ; 
The  crime  provoked  his  wrath,  the  folly  stirred  his  blood. 
Nor  wonder  was  it  if  so  strange  a  sight 
Caused  joy  with  vengeance,  terror  with  delight. 
Terror  like  this  a  tiger  might  create  ; 
A  joy  like  that,  to  see  his  captive  state. 
At  once  to  know  his  force,  and  then  decree  his  fate. 

Hammond,  much  praised  by  numerous  friends,  was  come 
To  read  his  lectures,  so  admired  at  home  ; 
Historic  lectures,  where  he  loved  to  mix 
His  free  plain  hints  on  modern  politics. 
Here  he  had  heard  that  numbers  had  design, 
Their  business  finished,  to  sit  down  and  dine  ; 
This  gave  him  pleasure,  for  he  judged  it  right 
To  show  by  day  that  he  could  speak  at  night. 
Rash  the  design — for  he  perceived,  too  late, 
Not  one  approving  friend  beside  him  sate  ; 
The  greater  number  whom  he  traced  around 
Were  men  in  black,  and  he  conceived  they  frowned. 
"  I  will  not  speak,"  he  thought ;  "no  pearls  of  mine 
Siiall  be  presented  to  this  herd  of  swine." 
Not  this  availed  him  when  he  cast  his  eye 
On  Justice  Bolt  ;  he  could  not  fight,  nor  fly. 
He  saw  a  man  to  whom  he  gave  the  pain 
Which'  now  he  felt  must  be  returned  again  jv.      , 
His  conscience  told  him  with  what  keen  deligTit 
He,  at  thaf  time,  enjoyed  a  stranger's  fright ; 


CRABBE.  2S5 

That  stranger  now  befriended, — he  alone, 

For  all  his  insult,  friendless,  to  atone  ; 

Now  he  could  feel  it  cruel  that  a  heart 

Should  be  distressed,  and  none  to  take  its  part. 

"  Though  one  by  one,"  said  Pride,  "  I  would  defy 

Much  greater  men,  yet,  meeting  every  eye, 

I  do  confess  a  fear — but  he  will  pass  me  by." 

Vain  hope  !  the  Justice  saw  the  foe's  distress, 
With  exultation  he  could  not  suppress. 
He  felt  the  fish  was  hooked — and  so  forbore, 
In  playful  spite,  to  draw  it  to  the  shore. 
Hammond  looked  round  again  ;  but  none  were  near, 
With  friendly  smile  to  still  his  growing  fear  ; 
But  all  above  him  seemed  a  solemn  row 
Of  priests  and  deacons,  so  they  seemed  below. 
He  wondered  who  his  right-hand  man  might  be— 
Vicar  of  Holt  cum  Uppingham  was  he  ; 
A.nd  who  the  man  of  that  dark  frown  possessed — 
Rector  of  Bradley  and  of  Barton-west  ; 
"  A  pluralist,"  he  growled — but  checked  the  word, 
That  warfare  might  not,  by  his  zeal,  be  stirred. 

But  now  began  the  man  above  to  show 
Fierce  looks  and  threatenings  to  the  man  below  ; 
Who  had  some  thoughts  his  peace  by  flight  to  seek- 
But  how  then  lecture,  if  he  dared  not  speak  ? 

Now  as  the  Justice  for  the  war  prepared. 
He  seemed  just  then  to  question  if  he  dared  : 
"  He  may  resist,  although  his  power  be  small, 
And,  growing  desperate,  may  defy  us  all. 
One  dog  attack,  and  he  prepares  for  flight 
Resist  another,  and  he  strives  to  bite  ; 
Nor  can  I  say  if  this  rebellious  cur 
Will  fly  for  safety,  or  will  scorn  to  stir." 
Alarmed  l)y  this,  he  lashed  his  soul  to  rage, 
Burned  with  strong  shame,  and  hu'-ried  to  engage. 

As  a  male  turkey  straggling  on  the  green. 
When  by  fierce  harriers,  terriers,  mongrels,  seen, 
He  feels  the  insult  of  the  noisy  train 
And  skulks  aside,  though  moved  by  much  disdain ; 
But  when  that  turkey,  at  his  own  barn-door, 
Sees  one  poor  straying  puppy  and  no  more 
(A  foolisli  I'ujTpy  wlio  had  left  ihe  pack. 
Thoughtless  what  foe  was  threatening  at  his  back), 
He  moves  about,  as  ship  prepared  to  sail. 
He  hoists  his  proud  rotundity  of  tail, 
The  half-scaled  eyes  and  changeful  neck  he  shows. 
Where,  in  its  quickening  colours,  vengeance  glows  ; 


2S6  CRABBE. 


From  red  to  blue  the  pendent  wattles  turn, 

Blue  mixed  with  red,  as  matches  when  they  burn  ; 

And  thus  the  intruding  snarler  to  oppose, 

Urged  by  enkindling  wrath,  he  gobbling  goes  : — 

So  looked  our  hero  in  his  wrath.    His  cheeks 

Flushed  with  fresh  fires,  and  glowed  in  tingling  streaks  ; 

His  breath,  by  passion's  force  awhile  restrained, 

Like  a  stopped  current  greater  force  regained ; 

So  spoke,  so  looked  he,  every  eye  and  ear 

Were  fixed  to  view  him,  or  were  turned  to  hear. 

"  My  friends,  you  know  me  ;  you  can  witness  all 
How,  urged  by  passion,  I  restrain  my  gall ; 
And  every  motive  to  revenge  withstand — 
Save  when  I  hear  abused  my  native  land. 
Is  it  not  known,  agreed,  confirmed,  confessed. 
That,  of  all  people,  we  are  governed  best  ? 
We  have  the  force  of  monarchies  ;  are  free 
As  the  most  proud  republicans  can  be  ;  .^ 

And  have  those  prudent  counsels  that  arise 
In  grave  and  cautious  aristocracies. 
And  live  there  those,  in  such  all-glorious  state^ 
Traitors  protected  in  the  land  they  hate  ? 
Rebels,  still  warring  with  the  laws  that  give 
Tc  them  subsistence  ? — Yes,  such  wretches  live. 
Ours  is  a  Church  reformed,  and  now  no  more 
Is  aught  for  man  to  mend  or  to  restore  ; 
'Tis  pure  in  doctrines,  'tis  correct  in  creeds. 
Has  nought  redundant,  and  it  nothing  needs. 
No  evil  is  therein — no  wrinkle,  spot, 
Stain,  blame,  or  blemish  :— I  affirm  there's  not. 
All  this  you  know — now  mark  what  once  befell  ; 
With  grief  I  bore  it,  and  with  shame  I  tell. 
I  was  entrapped — yes,  so  it  came  to  pass, 
'Mid  heathen  rebels,  a  tumultuous  class  ; 
Each  to  his  country  bore  a  hellish  mind, 
Each  like  his  neighbour  was  of  cursed  kind. 
The  land  that  nursed  them  they  blasphemed  ;  the  laws, 
Their  sovereign's  glory,  and  their  country's  cause  ; 
And  who  their  mouth,  their  master-fiend,  and  who 
Rebellion's  oracle  ? You,  caitiff,  you  ! " 

He  spoke,  and  standing  stretched  his  mighty  arm, 
And  fixed  the  Man  of  Words,  as  b)  a  charm. 

"How  raved  that  railer  !  Sure  some  hellish  power 
Restrained  my  tongue  in  that  delirious  hour, 
Or  I  had  hurled  the  shame  and  vengeance  due 
On  him,  the  guide  of  that  infuriate  crew. 
But  to  mine  eyes  such  dreadful  looks  appeared, 
Such  mingled  yell  of  lying  words  I  heard. 


CRAB  BE.  -  287 

That  I  conceived  around  were  demons  all, 
And,  till  I  fled  the  house,  I  feared  its  fall. 
Oh  !  could  our  country  from  our  coasts  expel 
Such  foes,— to  nourish  those  who  wish  her  well ! 
This  her  mild  laws  forbid,  but  we  may  still 
From  us  eject  them  by  our  sovereign  will  ; 
This  let  us  do." — He  said  ;  and  then  began 
A  gentler  feeling  for  the  silent  man  ; 
Even  in  our  hero's  mighty  soul  arose 
A  touch  of  pity  for  experienced  woes. 
But  this  was  transient,  and  with  angry  eye 
He  sternly  looked,  and  paused  for  a  reply, 

'Twas  then  the  Man  of  many  Words  would  speak — 
But,  in  his  trial,  had  them  all  to  seek  : 
To  find  a  friend  he  looked  the  circle  round, 
But  joy  or  scorn  in  every  feature  found.' 
He  sipped  his  wine,  but  in  those  times  of  dread 
Wine  only  adds  confusion  to  the  head  ; 
In  doubt  he  reasoned  with  himself — "  And  how 
Harangue  at  night,  if  I  be  silent  now  ?  " 
From  pride,  and  praise  received,  he  sought  to  draw 
Courage  to  speak,  but  still  remained  the  awe. 
One  moment  rose  he  with  a  forced  disdain, 
And  then,  abashed,  sunk  sadly  down  again  ; 
While  in  our  hero's  glance  he  seemed  to  read, 
"  Slave  and  insurgent  !  what  hast  thou  to  plead  ?  " 

By  desperation  urged,  he  now  began  : 
"  I  seek  no  favour — I — the  rights  of  man 
Claim  ;  and  I — nay  ! — but  give  me  leave — and  I 
Insist — a  man — that  is — and  in  reply 
I  speak." — Alas  !  each  new  attempt  was  vain: 
Confused  he  stood,  he  sate,  he  rose  again  ; 
At  length  he  growled  defiance,  sought  the  door, 
Cursed  the  whole  synod,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

"  Laud  we,"  said  Justice  Bolt,  "the  Powers  above  : 
Thus  could  our  speech  the  sturdiest  foe  remove." 
Exulting  now  he  gained  new  strength  of  fame, 
And  lost  all  feelings  of  defeat  and  shame. 
"  He  dared  not  strive,  you  witnessed — dared  not  lift 
His  voice,  nor  drive  at  his  accursed  drift  : 
So  all  shall  tremble,  wretches  who  oppose 
Our  Church  or  State — thus  be  it  to  our  foes." 

He  spoke,  and,  seated  with  his  former  air, 
Looked  his  full  self,  and  filled  his  ample  chair  ; 
Took  one  full  l)umper  to  each  favourite  cause, 
And  dwelt  all  night  on  politics  and  laws, 
With  high  applauding  voice,  that  gained  him  high  applause. 


2SS  CRABBE. 


THE  WIDOW. 

Harriet  at  school  was  very  much  the  same 
As  other  misses  ;  and  so  home  she  came, 
Like  other  ladies,  there  to  live  and  learn, 
To  wait  her  season,  and  to  take  her  turn. 

Their  husbands  maids  as  priests  their  livings  gain  | 
The  best,  they  find,  are  hardest  to  obtain. 
On  those  that  offer  both  awhile  debate — 
"  I  need  not  take  it,  it  is  not  so  late  ; 
Better  will  come  if  we  will  longer  stay, 
And  strive  to  put  ourselves  in  fortune's  way." 
And  thus  they  wait,  till  many  years  are  past, 
For  what  comes  slowly — but  it  comes  at  last. 

Harriet  was  wedded, — but  it  must  be  said, 
The  vowed  obedience  was  not  duly  paid. 
Hers  was  an  easy  man,  — it  gave  him  pain 
To  hear  a  lady  murmur  and  complain. 
He  was  a  merchant,  whom  his  father  made 
Rich  in  the  gains  of  a  successful  trade  : 
A  lot  more  pleasant,  or  a  view  more  fair, 
Has  seldom  fallen  to  a  youthful  pair. 

But  what  is  faultless  in  a  world  like  this  ? 
In  eveiy  station  something  seems  amiss  : 
The  lady,  married,  found  the  house  too  small — 
"Two  shabby  parlours,  and  that  ugly  hall ! 
Had  we  a  cottage  somewhere,  and  could  meet 
One's  friends  and  favourites  in  one's  snug  retreat, 
Or  only  join  a  single  room  to  these. 
It  would  be  living  something  at  our  ease. 
And  have  one's  self,  at  home,  the  comfort  that  one  sees." 

Such  powers  of  reason,  and  of  mind  such  strength. 
Fought  with  man's  fear,  and  they  prevailed  at  length  : 
The  room  was  built,— and  Harriet  did  not  know 
A  prettier  dwelling,  either  high  or  low. 
But  Harriet  loved  such  conquests,  loved  to  plead 
With  her  reluctant  man,  and  to  succeed  ; 
It  was  such  pleasure  to  prevail  o'er  one 
Who  would  oppose  tlie  thing  that  still  was  done, 
V\^ho  never  gained  the  race,  but  yet  would  groan  and  run. 

But  there  were  times  when  love  and  pity  gave 
Whatever  thoughtless  vanity  could  crave. 
She  now  the  carriage  chose  with  freshest  name, 
And  was  in  quite  a  fever  tdl  it  came. 
But  can  a  carriage  be  alone  enjoyed? 
The  pleasure  not  partaken  is  destroyed  ; 
"  I  must  have  some  good  creature  to  attend 
On  morning  visits  as  a  kind  of  friend." 


CKABBE.  289 


A  courteous  maiden  then  was  found  to  sit 
Beside  the  lady,  for  her  purpose  fit, 
Who  had  been  trained  in  all  the  soothing  ways 
And  servile  duties  from  her  early  days  ; 
One  who  had  never  from  her  childhood  known 
A  wish  fulfilled,  a  purpose  of  her  own. 
Her  part  it  was  to  sit  beside  the  dame, 
And  give  relief  in  every  want  that  came  ; 
To  soothe  the  pride,  to  watch  the  varying  look, 
And  bow  in  silence  to  the  dumb  rebuke. 

This  supple  being  strove  with  all  her  skill 
To  draw  her  master's  to  her  lady's  will ; 
For  they  were  like  the  magnet  and  the  steel, 
At  times  so  distant  that  they  could  not  feel  ; 
Then  would  slie  gently  move  them,  till  she  saw 
That  to  each  other  they  began  to  draw  ; 
And  then  would  leave  them,  sure  on  her  return 
In  Harriet's  joy  her  conquest  to  discern. 

She  was  a  mother  now,  and  grieved  to  find 
The  nursery-window  caught  the  eastern  wind. 
What  could  she  do,  with  fears  like  these  oppressed  ? 
She  built  a  room  all  windowed  to  the  west ; 
For  sure  in  one  so  dull,  so  bleak,  so  old. 
She  and  her  children  must  expire  with  cold. 
Meantime  the  husband  murmured. — So  he  might  ; 
She  would  be  judged  by  Cousins — Was  it  right? 

Water  was  near  them  ;  and,  her  mind  afloat, 
The  lady  saw  a  cottage  and  a  boat, 
And  thought  what  sweet  excursions  they  might  make, 
How  they  might  sail,  what  neighbours  they  might  take, 
And  nicely  would  she  deck  the  lodge  upon  the  lake. 

She  now  prevailed  by  habit ;  had  her  will, 
And  found  her  patient  husband  sad  and  still. 
Yet  this  displeased  ;  she  gained,  indeed,  the  prize. 
But  not  the  pleasure  of  her  victories. 
Was  she  a  cliild  to  be  indulged  ?     He  knew 
She  would  have  right,  but  would  have  reason  too. 

Now  came  the  time  when  in  her  husband's  face 
Care,  and  concern,  and  caution,  she  could  trace. 
His  troubled  features  gloom  and  sadness  bore  ; 
Less  he  resisted,  but  he  suffered  more  ; 
His  nerves  were  shook  like  hers  ;  in  him  her  grief 
Had  much  of  sympathy,  but  no  relief. 

Slic  could  no  longer  read,  and  therefore  kept 
A  girl  to  give  her  stories  while  she  wc|3t  j 


290  CRABBE. 


Better  for  Lady  Julia's  woes  to  cry 

Than  have  her  own  for  ever  in  her  eye. 

Her  husband  grieved,  and  o'er  his  spirits  came 

Gloom  ;  and  disease  attacked  his  slender  frame  j 

He  felt  a  loathing  for  the  wretched  state 

Of  his  concerns,  so  sad,  so  complicate  ; 

Grief  and  confusion  seized  him  in  the  day. 

And  the  night  passed  in  agony  away. 

"  My  ruin  comes  !  "  was  his  awakening  thought ; 

And  vainly  through  the  day  was  comfort  sought. 

"There,  take  my  all  !"  he  said,  and  in  his  dream 

Heard  the  door  bolted,  and  his  children  scream. 

And  he  was  right,  for  not  a  day  arose 

That  he  exclaimed  not,  "Will  it  never  close?" 

"  Would  it  were  come  !  " — but  still  he  shifted  on, 

Till  health,  and  hope,  and  life's  fair  views,  were  gone. 

Fretful  herself,  he  of  his  wife  in  vain 
For  comfort  sought. — He  would  be  well  again  ; 
Time  would  disorders  of  such  nature  heal. 
Oh  if  he  felt  what  she  was  doomed  to  feel ! 
Such  sleepless  nights  !  such  broken  rest !  her  frame 
Racked  with  diseases  that  she  could  not  name  ! 
With  pangs  like  hers  no  other  was  oppressed  ! — 
Weeping,  she  said,  and  sighed  herself  to  rest. 

The  suffering  husband  looked  the  world  around, 
And  saw  no  friend  :  on  him  misfortune  frowned  ; 
Him  self-reproach  tormented.     Sorely  tried 
By  threats  he  mourned,  and  by  disease  he  died. 

As  weak  as  wailing  infancy  or  age, 
How  could  the  widow  with  the  world  engage? 
Fortune  not  now  the  means  of  comfort  gave, 
Yet  all  her  comforts  Harriet  wept  to  have. 

"  My  helpless  babes,"  she  said,  "  will  nothing  know  ; " 
Yet  not  a  single  lesson  would  bestow. 
Her  debts  would  overwhelm  her,  that  was  sure  ; 
But  one  privation  would  she  not  endure. 
"  We  shall  want  bread  !  the  thing  is  past  a  doubt." — 
"Then  part  with  Cousins  !"—"  Can  I  do  without?"— 
"Dismiss  your  servants  !  " — "  Spare  me  them,  I  pray  !  "- 
"At  least  your  carriage  !  " — "  What  will  people  say  ?"— 
"  That  useless  boat,  that  folly  on  the  lake  ! " — 
"Oh  !  but  what  cry  and  scandal  will  it  make  !  " 

It  was  so  hard  on  her,  who  not  a  thing 
Had  done  such  mischief  on  their  heads  to  bring  ; 
This  was  her  comfort,  this  she  would  declare, 
And  then  slept  soundly  on  her  pillowed  chair. 


CRAB  BE.  291 


When  not  asleep,  how  restless  v/as  the  soul, 

Above  advice,  exempted  from  control ; 

For  ever  begging  all  to  be  sincere, 

And  never  willing  any  truth  to  hear. 

A  yellow  paleness  o'er  her  visage  spread, 

Her  fears  augmented  as  her  comforts  fled  ; 

Views  dark  and  dismal  to  her  mind  appeared, 

And  death  she  sometimes  wooed,  and  always  feared. 

Among  the  clerk?  there  M'as  a  thoughtful  one, 
Who  still  believed  that  something  might  be  done  ; 
All  in  his  view  was  not  so  sunk  and  lost 
But  of  a  trial  things  would  pay  the  cost. 
He  judged  the  widow,  and  he  saw  the  way 
In  which  her  husband  suffered  her  to  stray. 
He  saw  entangled  and  perplexed  affairs, 
And  Time's  sure  hand  at  work  on  their  repairs  ; 
Children  he  saw,  but  nothing  could  he  see 
Why  he  might  nor  their  careful  father  be  ; 
And,  looking  keenly  round  him,  he  believed 
That  what  was  lost  might  quickly  be  retrieved. 

Now  thought  our  clerk — '•  I  must  not  mention  love, — 
That  she  at  least  must  seem  to  disapprove  ; 
But  I  must  fear  of  poverty  enforce. 
And  then  consent  will  be  a  thing  of  course." 

"Madam  !"  said  he,  "with  sorrow  I  relate, 
That  our  affairs  are  in  a  dreadful  state  ; 
I  called  on  all  our  friends,  and  they  declared 
They  dared  not  meddle — not  a  creature  dared. 
But  still  our  perseverance  cliance  may  aid, 
And,  though  I'm  puzzled,  I  am  not  afraid. 
If  you,  dear  lady,  will  attention  give 
To  me,  the  credit  of  the  house  shall  live. 
Do  not,  I  pray  you,  my  proposal  blame  ; 
It  is  my  wish  to  guard  your  husband's  fame. 
And  case  your  trouble  ;  then  your  cares  resign 
To  my  discretion— and,  in  short,  be  mine." 

"Yours  !  O  my  stars  ! — Your  goodness,  sir,  deserves 
IMy  grateful  thanks — take  j)ity  on  my  nerves  j 
I  shake  and  tremble  at  a  thing  so  new, 
And  fear  'tis  what  a  lady  should  not  do  ; 
And  then  to  marry  upon  ruin's  brink 
In  all  this  hurry — what  will  people  think?" 

"Nay,  there's  against  us  neither  rule  nor  law, 
And  people's  thinkir.g  is  not  worth  a  straw  ; 
Those  who  are  prudent  have  too  much  to  do 
With  their  own  cares  to  think  of  me  and  you ; 


292  CRABBE. 


And  those  who  are  not  are  so  poor  a  race 
That  what  they  utter  can  be  no  disgi'ace. — 
Come  !  let  us  now  embark  when  time  and  tide 
Invite  to  sea  ;  ni  happy  hour  decide  ; 
If  yet  we  linger,  both  are  sure  to  fail. 
The  turning  waters  and  the  varying  gale. 
Trust  me,  our  vessel  shall  be  ably  steered, 
Nor  will  I  quit  her  till  the  rocks  are  cleared." 

Allured  and  frightened,  softened  and  afraid, 
The  widow  doubted,  pondered,  and  obeyed. 
So  were  they  wedded,  and  the  careful  man 
His  reformation  instantly  began  ; 
Began  his  state  w  ith  vigour  to  reform, 
And  made  a  calm  by  laughing  at  the  storm. 

The  attendant-maiden  he  dismissed — for  why? 
She  miglit  on  him  and  love  like  his  rely, 
She  needed  none  to  form  her  children's  mind, — 
That  duty  nature  to  her  care  assigned. 
In  vain  she  mourned,  it  was  her  health  he  prized, 
And  hence  enforced  the  measures  he  advised. 
She  wanted  air  ;  and  walking,  she  was  told. 
Was  safe,  was  pleasant ! — he  the  carriage  sold. 
He-found  a  tenant  who  agreed  to  take 
The  boat  and  cottage  on  the  useless  lake  ; 
The  house  itself  had  now  superfluous  room, 
And  a  rich  lodger  was  induced  to  come. 

The  lady  wondered  at  the  sudden  change. 
That  yet  was  pleasant,  that  was  very  strange. 
When  every  deed  by  her  desire  was  done. 
She  had  no  day  of  comfort— no,  not  one. 
When  nothing  moved  or  stopped  at  her  request, 
Her  heart  had  comfort,  and  her  temper  rest  ; 
For  all  was  done  with  kindness, — most  polite 
W^as  her  new  lord,  and  she  confessed  it  right ; 
For  now  she  found  that  she  could  gaily  live 
On  what  the  chance  of  common  life  could  give  : 
And  her  sick  mind  was  cured  of  eveiy  ill, 
By  finding  no  compliance  with  her  will ; 
For,  when  she  saw  tliat  her  desires  were  vain. 
She  wisely  thought  it  foolish  to  complaiii. 

Born  for  her  man,  she  gave  a  gentle  sigh 
To  her  lost  power,  and  grieved  not  to  comply ; 
Within,  without,  the  face  of  things  improved, 
And  all  in  order  and  subjection  moved. 
As  wealth  increased,  ambition  now  began 
To  swell  the  soul  of  the  aspiring  man ; 


CRABBE.  293 

In  some  few  years  he  thought  to  purchase  land, 
And  build  a  seat  that  hope  and  fancy  planned ; 
To  this  a  name  his  youthful  bride  should  give  ! 
Harriet,  of  course,  not  many  years  would  live. 
Then  he  would  farm,  and  every  soil  should  show 
The  tree  that  best  upon  the  place  would  grow. 
He  would,  moreover,  on  the  Bench  debate 
On  sundry  questions — when  a  magistrate  ; 
Would  talk  of  all  that  to  the  state  belongs, 
The  rich  man's  duties,  and  the  poor  man's  wrongs ; 
He  would  with  favourites  of  the  people  rank, 
And  him  the  weak  and  the  oppressed  should  thank, 

'Tis  true  those  children,  orphans  then,  would  need 
Help  in  a  world  of  trouble  to  succeed  ; 
And  they  should  have  it.-^He  should  then  possess 
All  that  man  needs  for  earthly  happiness. 

"Proud  words,  and  vain  !"  said  Doctor  Young;  and  proud 
They  are  ;  and  vain,  were  by  our  clerk  allowed  ; 
For,  while  he  dreamed,  there  came  both  pain  and  cough, 
And  fever  never  tamed,  and  bore  him  off; 
Young  as  he  was,  and  planning  schemes  to  live 
With  more  delight  than  man's  success  can  give  ; 
Building  a  mansion  in  his  fancy  vast, 
Beyond  the  Gothic  pride  of  ages  past  f 
While  this  was  planned,  but  ere  a  place  was  sought, 
The  timber  seasoned,  or  the  quarry  wrought. 
Came  Death's  dread  summons,  and  the  man  was  laid 
In  the  poor  house  the  simple  sexton  made. 

But  he  had  time  for  thought  when  he  was  ill, 
And  made  his  lady  an  indulgent  will. 
'Tis  said  he  gave,  in  parting,  his  advice, 
"It  is  sufficient  to  be  married  twice  :" 
To  which  she  answered,  as  'tis  said  again, 
"There's  none  will  have  you  if  you're  poor  and  plain  ; 
And,  if  you're  rich  anrl  handsome,  there  is  none 
Will  take  refusal — let  the  point  alone." 

Be  this  or  true  or  false,  it  is  her  praise 
She  mourned  correctly  all  the  mourning  days. 
But  grieve  she  did  not ;  for  the  canker  grief 
Soils  the  Complexion,  and  is  beauty's  thief; 
Nothing,  indeed,  so  much  will  discompose 
Our  public  mourning  as  our  private  woes. 
When  tender  thoughts  a  widow's  bosom  probe. 
She  thinks  not  then  how  graceful  sits  the  robe  ; 
But  our  nice  widow  looked  to  every  fold, 
And  every  eye  its  beauty  might  behold. 


294  CRAB  BE. 


It  was  becoming  ;  she  composed  her  face, 

She  looked  serenely,  and  she  mourned  with  grace. 

Some  months  were  passed,  but  yet  there  wanted  three 
Of  the  full  time  when  widows  wives  may  be  ; 
One  trying  year,  and  then  the  mind  is  freed, 
And  man  may  to  the  vacant  throne  succeed. 

There  was  a  tenant — he,  to  wit,  who  hired 
That  cot  and  lake  that  were  so  much  admired  ; 
A  man  of  spirit,  one  who  doubtless  meant. 
Though  he  delayed  awhile,  to  pay  his  rent. 
The  widow's  riches  gave  her  much  delight. 
And  some  her  claims,  and  she  resolved  to  write  : — 
He  knew  her  grievous  loss,  how  every  care 
Devolved  on  her,  who  had  indeed  her  share  ; 
She  had  no  doubt  of  him, — but  was  as  sure 
As  that  she  breathed  her  money  was  secure  ; 
But  she  had  made  a  rash  and  idle  vow 
To  claim  her  dues,  and  she  must  keep  it  now  : 

So  if  it  suited 

And  for  this  there  came 
A  civil  answer  to  the  gentle  dame  : 
Within  the  letter  were  excuses,  thanks. 
And  clean  bank-paper  from  the  Ijest  of  banks  ; 
There  were  condolence,  consolation,  praise. 
With  some  slight  hints  of  danger  in  delays. 
With  these  good  things  were  others  from  the  lake, 
Perch  that  were  wished  to  salmon  for  her  sake, 
And  compliment  as  sweet  as  new-born  hope  could  make. 

This  led  to  friendly  visits,  social  calls. 
And  much  discourse  of  races,  rambles,  balls  ; 
But  all  in  proper  bounds,  and  not  a  word 
Before  its  time — the  man  was  not  absurd. 
Nor  was  he  cold  ;  but,  when  she  might  expect, 
A  letter  came,  and  one  to  this  effect : — 

That,  if  his  eyes  had  not  his  love  conveyed, 
They  had  their  master  shamefully  betrayed; 
But  she  must  know  the  flame,  tliat  he  was  sure. 
Nor  she  could  doubt  would  long  as  life  endure. 
Both  were  in  widowed  state,  and  both  possessed 
Of  ample  means  to  make  their  union  blest. 
That  she  liad  been  confined  he  knew  for  truth. 
And  begged  her  to  have  pity  on  her  youth ; 
Youth,  he  would  say,  and  he  desired  his  wife 
To  have  the  comforts  of  an  easy  life  : 
She  loved  a  carriage,  loved  a  decent  seat 
To  which  they  might  at  certain  times  retreat. 


CRABBE.  295 


Servants  indeed  were  sorrows, — yet  a  few 

They  still  must  add,  and  do  as  others  do  : 

She  too  would  some  attendant  damsel  need, 

To  hear,  to  speak,  to  travel,  or  to  read. 

In  short,  the  man  his  remedies  assigned 

For  his  foreknown  diseases  in  the  mind : — 

First,  he  presumed  that  in  a  nervous  case 

Nothing  was  better  than  a  change  of  a  place  : 

He  added,  too, — 'Twas  well  that  he  could  prove 

That  his  was  pure,  disinterested  love  ; 

Not  as  when  lawyers  couple  house  and  land 

In  such  a  way  as  none  can  understand  ; 

No  !  thanks  to  Him  that  every  good  supplied, 

He  had  enough,  and  wanted  nought  beside  ! 

Merit  was  all. — 

Y\"ell !  now,  she  would  protest, 
This  was  a  letter  prettily  expressed  ! 
To  every  female  friend  away  she  flew 
To  ask  advice,  and  say  "  What  shall  I  do?" 
She  kissed  her  children,— and  she  said,  with  tears, 
"I  wonder  what  is  best  for  you,  my  dears? 
How  can  I,  darlings,  to  your  good  attend 
Without  tlie  help  of  some  experienced  friend, 
Who  will  protect  us  all,  or,  injured,  will  defend?" 

The  Widow  then  asked  counsel  of  her  heart, — 
In  vain,  for  that  had  nothing  to  impart ; 
But  yet,  with  that  (or  something)  for  her  guide. 
She  to  her  swain  thus  guardedly  replied ; — 

She  must  believe  he  was  sincere,  for  why 
Should  one  who  needed  nothing  deign  to  lie? 
But,  though  she  could  and  did  his  truth  admit, 
She  could  not  praise  him  for  his  taste  a  bit. 
And  yet  men's  tastes  were  various,  she  confessed, 
And  none  could  prove  his  own  to  be  the  best. 
It  was  a  vast  concern,  including  all 
That  we  can  happiness  or  comfort  call ; 
And  yet  she  found  that  those  who  waited  long 
Before  their  choice  had  often  chosen  wrong.    ■ 
Nothing,  indeed,  could  for  her  loss  atone, 
But  'twas  the  greater  that  she  lived  alone. 
She  too  had  means,  and  therefore  what  the  use 
Of  more,  that  still  more  trouble  would  produce? 
And  pleasure  too,  she  owned,  as  well  as  care, — 
Of  which,  at  present,  she  had  not  her  share. 
The  things  he  offered,  she  must  needs  confess, 
They  were  all  women's  wishes,  more  or  less  ; 
But  were  expensive  ;  though  a  man  of  sense 
Would  by  his  pradencc  lighten  the  expense. 


296  CRAB  BE. 


Prudent  he  was,  but  made  a  sad  mistake 
When  he  proposed  her  faded  face  to  take  ; 
And  yet,  'tis  said,  there's  beauty  that  will  last 
When  the  rose  ^^•ithers  and  the  bloom  be  past. 

One  tiling  disjileased  her,— that  he  could  suppose 
He  miglit  so  soon  his  purposes  disclose  ; 
Yet  had  she  hints  of  such  intent  before, 
And  would  excuse  him  if  he  wrote  no  more. 
What  would  the  world?— and  yet  she  judged  them  fools 
Who  let  the  world's  suggestions  be  their  rules. 
W^hat  would  her  friends? — Yet  in  her  own  affairs 
It  was  hcT  business  to  decide,  not  theirs. 
"  Adieu  !  then,  sir,"  she  added;   "thus  you  find 
The  changeless  purpose  of  a  steady  mind, 
In  one  now  left  alone,  but  to  her  fate  resigned." 

The  marriage  followed  ;  and  the  experienced  dame 
Considered  what  the  conduct  that  became 
A  thrice-devoted  lady. — She  confessed 
That  when  indulged  she  was  but  more  distressed; 
And,  by  her  second  husband  when  controlled. 
Her  life  was  pleasant,  though  her  love  was  cold ; 
I^Then  let  me  yield,"  she  said,  and  with  a  sigh  ; 
"Let.me  to  wrong  submit,  with  right  comply." 
Alas  !  obedience  may  mistake,  and  they 
Who  reason  not  will  err  when  they  obey; 
And  fated  was  the  gentle  dame  to  hnd 
Her  duty  wrong,  and  her  obedience  blind. 

The  man  was  kind,  but  would  have  no  dispute  ; 
His  love  and  kindness  both  were  absolute. 
She  needed  not  lier  wishes  to  express 
To  one  who  urged  her  on  to  happiness  ; 
For  this  he  took  her  to  the  lakes  and  seas. 
To  mines  and  mountains  ;  nor  allowed  her  ease  ; — 
She  must  be  pleased,  he  said,  and  he  must  live  to  please. 

He  hurried  north  and  south,  and  east  and  west ; 
When  age  required,  they  would  have  time  to  rest: 
He  in  the  richest  dress  her  form  airayed. 
And  cared  not  what  he  promised,  what  he  paid ; 
She  should  share  all  his  pleasures  as  her  own. 
And  see  whatever  could  be  sought  or  shown. 

This  ran  of  pleasure  for  a  time  she  bore, 
And  then  affirmed  that  .she  eould  taste  no  more  ; 
She  loved  it  while  its  nature  it  retained. 
But,  made  a  duty,  it  displeased  and  pained. 
"  Have  we  not  means?"  the  joyous  husband  cried. 
"But  I  am  wearied  out,"  the  wife  replied. 


CRABBE.  297 


'  Wearied  with  pleasure  !     Tiling  till  now  unheard ! — 
Are  all  that  sweeten  trouble  to  be  feared  ? 
'Tis  but  the  sameness  tires  you,  — cross  the  seas, 
And  let  us  taste  the  world's  varieties. 
'Tis  said,  in  Paris  that  a  man  may  live 
In  all  the  luxuries  a  world  can  give, 
And  in  a  space  confined  to  narrow  bound 
All  the  enjoyments  of  our  life  are  found. 
There  we  may  eat  and  drink,  may  dance  and  dress, 
And  in  its  very  essence  joy  possess; 
May  see  a  moving  crowd  of  lovely  dames, 
INIay  wm  a  fortune  at  your  favourite  games ; 
Way  hear  the  sounds  that  ravish  human  sense, 
Aad  all  without  receding  foot  from  thence." 

The  conquered  wife,  resistless  and  afraid, 
To  the  strong  call  a  sad  obedience  paid. 

As  we  an  infant,  in  its  pain,  with  sweets 
Loved  once,  now  loathed,  torment  him  till  he  eats, 
Who  on  the  authors  of  his  new  distress 
Looks  trembling  with  disgusted  weariness. 
So  Harriet  felt,  so  looked,  and  seemed  to  say, 
"  Oh  for  a  day  of  rest,  a  holiday  !" 

At  length,  her  courage  rising  with  her  fear. 
She  said,  "Our  pleasures  may  be  bought  too  dear!" 

To  this  he  answered — "  Dearest  !  from  thy  heart 
Bid  every  fear  of  evil  times  depart. 
I  ever  trusted  in  the  trying  hour 
To  my  good  stars,  and  felt  the  ruling  power. 
When  Want  drew  nigh,  his  threatening  speed  was  stopped  > 
Some  virgin  aunt,  some  childless  uncle,  dropped. 
In  all  his  threats  I  sought  expedients  new. 
And  my  last,  best  resource  was  found  in  you." 

Silent  and  sad  the  wife  beheld  her  doom, 
And  sat  her  down  to  see  the  ruin  come. 
And  meet  the  ills  that  rise  where  money  fails, — 
Debts,  threats,  and  duns,  bills,  bailiffs,  writs,  and  jails. 

These  was  she  spared  ;  ere  yet  by  want  oppressed, 
Came  one  more  fierce  than  bailiff  in  arrest. 
Amid  a  scene  where  Pleasure  never  came. 
Though  never  ceased  the  mention  of  his  name, 
Tlie  husband's  heated  blood  received  the  breath 
Of  strong  disease,  that  bore  him  to  his  death. 

ITcr  all  collected, — whether  great  or  small 
The  sum,  I  know  not,  but  collected  all, — 


cgS  BLAKE. 

The  widowed  lady  to  her  cot  retired, 

And  there  she  lives  delighted  and  admired: 

Civil  to  all,  compliant  and  polite, 

Disposed  to  think  "whatever  is  is  right:" 

She  wears  the  widow's  weeds,  she  gives  the  widow's  mite. 

At  home  awhile,  she  in  the  autumn  finds 

The  sea  an  object  for  reflecting  minds, 

And  change  for  tender  spirits;  there  she  reads, 

And  weeps  in  comfort  in  her  graceful  weeds. 

What  gives  our  tale  its  moral  ?     Here  we  find 
That  wives  like  this  are  not  for  rale  designed, 
Nor  yet  for  blind  submission.     Happy  they 
Who,  while  they  feel  it  pleasant  to  obey, 
Have  yet  a  kind  companion  at  their  side 
Who  in  their  journey  will  his  power  divide. 
Or  yield  the  reins,  and  bid  the  lady  guide  ; 
Then  points  the  vv'onders  of  the  way,  and  makes 
The  duty  pleasant  that  she  undertakes. 
He  shows  her  objects  as  they  move  along, 
And  gently  rules  the  movements  that  are  wrong ; 
He  tells  her  all  the  skilful  driver's  art, 
And  smiles  to  see  how  well  she  acts  her  part ; 
Nor  praise  denies  to  courage  or  to  skill, 
In  using  power  that  he  resumes  at  will. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

[Born  In  London,  28  November  1  1757;  died  there,  12  August  1827.  This 
would  be  an  inappropriate  place  for  giving  any  account  of  the  supernal  mystic 
— designer,  painter,  engraver,  poet,  and  seer.  Indeed,  to  include  him  at  all  iji 
a  volume  of  Humorous  Poetry  requires  almost  an  apology  ;  the  quaintness  and 
freakish  quality  (not  unmingled  with  a  deep  sense)  of  the  following  slight  com- 
positions may  however  furnish  such  apology,  if  needed]. 

THE  LITTLE  VAGABOND. 

Dear  mother,  dear  mother,  the  Church  is  cold ; 

But  tlie  Alehouse  is  healthy,  and  pleasant,  and  warm. 

Besides,  I  can  tell  where  I  am  used  well ; 

The  poor  parsons  with  wind  like  a  blown  bladder  swell. 

But,  if  at  the  Church  they  would  give  us  some  ale. 
And  a  pleasant  fire  our  souls  to  regale, 
We'd  sing  and  we'd  pray  all  the  livelong  day, 
Nor  ever  once  wish  from  the  Church  to  stray. 


1  This  is  the  date  given  in  the  Life  of  Blake  by  Gilchrist,  and  elsewhere.  A 
MS.  which  I  have  seen,  belonging  to  Mr.  Tatham  who  knew  Blake  in  his  clos- 
ing year.s  says  "20  November,"  and  I  am  not  sure  but  th.-it  this  may  be  right. 


GEORGE  COLMAN  iJUNR.)  299 

Then  the  Parson  might  preach,  and  drink,  and  sing, 
And  we'd  be  as  happy  as  birds  in  the  spring ; 
And  modest  Dame  Lurch,  who  is  always  at  church, 
Would  not  have  bandy  children,  nor  fasting,  nor  birch. 

And  God,  like  a  father,  rejoicing  to  see 

His  children  as  pleasant  and  happy  as  He, 

Would  have  no  more  quarrel  with  the  Devil  or  the  barrel, 

But  kiss  him,  and  give  him  both  drink  and  apparel. 


ORATOR  PRIG. 

I  ASKED  of  my  dear  friend  orator  Prig  : 

"What's  the  first  part  of  oratory?"    He  said:  "A  great  wig." 

"  And  what  is  the  second?"    Then,  dancing  a  jig 

And  bowing  profoundly,  he  said:  "  A  great  wig." 

"And  what  is  the  third?"     Then  he  snored  like  a  pig, 

And,  puffing  his  cheeks  out,  replied  :  "  A  great  wig."— 

So,  if  to  a  painter  the  question  you  push, 

"  What's  the  first  part  of  painting?"  he'll  say :  "A  paint-brush." 

"And  what  is  the  second?"    With  most  modest  blush, 

He'll  smile  like  a  cherub,  and  say :  "  A  paint-brush." 

"  And  what  is  the  third?"     He'll  bow  like  a  rush, 

With  a  leer  in  his  eye,  and  reply :  "  A  paint-brush." 

Perhaps  this  is  all  a  painter  can  want : 

But  look  yonder, — that  house  is  the  liouse  of  Rembrandt. 


GEORGE  COLMAN  QUNR.) 

[Born  21  October  1762,  died  26  October  1836.  Author  of  TJie  Poor  Gentle- 
man, The  Iron  Chest,  The  Heir  at  La7u,  and  numerous  plays  that  have  held 
a  high  position  on  the  stage  ;  also  of  Broad  Gnus,  and  other  humorous  com- 
positions inverse.  He  was  a  theatrical  manager,  and  Examiner  of  Plays  for 
several  years.  His  father,  George  Colman  the  elder,  was  also  a  writer  of  a 
sim.ihr  class  ;  The  Clandestine  Marriage  (written  by  him  and  Garrick  jointly) 
being  one  of  his  chief  productions]. 

THE  NEWCASTLE  APOTHECARY. 
A  MAN,  in  many  a  country  town,  we  know. 

Professes  openly  with  Death  to  wrestle  j 
Entering  the  field  against  the  grimly  foe, 
Armed  willi  a  mortar  and  a  pestle. 

Yet  some  affirm  no  enemies  they  are; 
But  meet  just  like  prize-fighters  in  a  fair. 

Who  first  sliake  hands  before  they  box, 

Tlien  give  each  other  plaguy  knocks, 
With  all  the  love  and  kindness  of  a  Inolher: 

So,  many  a  suffering  patient  sititli. 
Though  tlie  Apothecary  fights  witli  Death, 

Still  they're  sworn  friends  to  one  another. 


300  GEORGE  COLMAN  {JUNR.) 

A  member  of  this  TEsculapian  line 
Lived  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne : 
No  man  could  better  gild  a  pill, 

Or  make  a  bill, 
Or  mix  a  draught,  or  bleed,  or  blister, 
Or  draw  a  tooth  out  of  your  head, 
Or  chatter  scandal  by  your  bed, 

Or  give  a  clyster. 

Of  occupations  these  were  qnatitwn  siiff.  : 
Yet  still  he  thought  the  list  not  long  enough, 
And  therefore  midwifery  he  chose  to  pin  to't. 
This  balanced  things: — for  if  he  hurled 
A  few  score  mortals  from  the  world, 
lie  made  amends  by  bringing  others  into't. 

His  fame  full  six  miles  round  the  country  ran ; 

In  short,  in  reputation  he  was  so///s  ■ 
All  the  old  women  called  him  '"a  fine  man!" 
His  name  was  Bolus. 

Benjamin  Bolus,  though  in  trade 
(Which  oftentimes  will  genius  fetter), 
•    Read  works  of  fancy,  it  is  said. 
And  cultivated  the  Bdks-Lettres. 

And  why  should  this  be  thought  so  odd? 
Can't  men  have  taste  who  cure  a  phthisic? 

Of  poetry  though  patron-god, 
Apollo  patronizes  physic. 

Bolus  loved  verse ; — and  took  so  much  delight  in't 
That  his  prescriptions  he  resolved  to  write  in't. 

No  opportunity  he  e'er  let  pass 

Of  writing  the  directions  on  his  labels 
In  dapper  couplets, — like  Gay's  Fables; 
Or  rather  like  tiie  lines  in  Hudibras. 

Apothecary's  verse  !    And  where's  the  treason  ? 

'Tis  simply  honest  dealing  : — not  a  crime  ; 
When  patients  swallow  physic  without  reason, 

It  is  but  fair  to  give  a  little  rhyme. 

He  had  a  patient  lying  at  death's  door, 

Some  three  miles  from  the  town, — it  might  be  four  ; 

To  whom,  one  evening,   Bolus  sent  an  article. 

In  Pharmacy,  that's  called  cathartical. 

And  on  the  label  of  the  stuft 

He  wrote  this  verse  ; 


GEORGE  COLMAN  {JUNE.)  Z0\ 

Which,  one  would  think,  was  clear  enough, 
And  terse  : — 
"  When  taken. 
To  be  well  shaken." 

Next  morning,  early,  Bolus  rose ; 

And  to  the  patient's  house  he  goes, 
Upon  his  pad, 

Who  a  vile  trick  of  stumbling  had. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  very  sorry  hack ; 
But  that's  of  course: 

For  what's  expected  from  a  horse 
With  an  Apothecary  on  his  back? 
Bolus  arrived  ;  and  gave  a  doubtful  tap, 
Between  a  single  and  a  double  rap. 

Knocks  of  this  kind 
Are  given  by  gentlemen  who  teach  to  dance, 

By  fiddlers,  and  by  opera-singers : 
One  loud,  and  then  a  little  one  behind  ; 
As  if  the  knocker  fell,  by  chance, 
Out  of  their  fingers. 

The  servant  lets  him  in,  with  dismal  face, 
Long  as  a  courtier's  out  of  place — 
Portending  some  disaster. 
John's  countenance  as  rueful  looked,  and  grim, 
As  if  tire  Apothecary  had  physicked  him. 
And  not  his  master. 
"Well,  how's  the  patient?"  Bolus  said. 

Jolm  shook  his  head. 
"  Indeed  ' — hum  !  ha! — that's  very  odd! 
He  took  the  draught?"     John  gave  a  nod. 
"  Well, — how? — what  then?— speak  out,  you  dunce!" 
"  Why,  then,"  says  John,  "we  shook  him  once." 
"Shook  him!   How?"     Bolus  stammered  out. 
"We  jolted  him  about." 
"Zounds  !  Shake  a  patient,  man ! — a  shake  won't  do." 
"No,  Sir, — and  so  we  gave  him  two.^' 
"  Two  shakes  I  od's  curse  ! 
'Twould  make  the  patient  worse." 
"It  did  so.  Sir! — and  so  a  third  we  tried." 
*'  Well,  and  what  then?" — "  Then,  Sir,  my  master  died !" 


302  BLOOMFIELD. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

[Born  at  Honington,  Suffolk,  1766;  died  in  1823.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
tailor  ;  worked  at  first  with  a  farmer,  and  afterwards  as  a  shoemaker.  Having 
a  turn  for  verse,  he  publisTied  some  compositions  in  a  newspaper ;  and  next 
wrote  The  Farmer's  Boy,  a  poem  of  some  length  which  ran  through  various 
editions.  He  tried  one  or  two  occupations,  as  a  change  from  shoemaking,  but 
without  commercial  success,  and  at  last  his  sight  failed  almost  entirely]. 

THE  HORKEY.i 

A  PROVINCIAL  BALLAD. 

What  gossips  prattled  in  the  sun, 

Who  talked  him  fairly  down. 
Up,  memory  !  tell  ;  'tis  Suffolk  fun, 

And  lingo  of  their  own. 

Ah  !  Judie  Twitchet  !  though  thou'rt  dead, 

With  thee  the  tale  begins  ; 
For  still  seems  thrumming  in  my  head 

The  rattling  of  thy  pins. 

Thou  Queen  of  knitters  !  for  a  ball 

Of  worsted  was  thy  pride  ; 
With  dangling  stockings  great  and  small. 

And  world  of  clack  beside  ! 

"  We  did  so  laugh  ;  the  moon  shone  bright ; 

More  fun  you  never  knew  ; 
'Twas  Farmer  Cheerum's  Horkey  night, 

And  I,  and  Grace,  and  Sue 

"  But  luring  a  stool,  sit  round  about, — 

And  boys,  be  quiet,  pray  ; 
And  let  me  tell  my  story  out ; 

'Twas  sich  a  merry  day  ! 

"  The  butcher  whistled  at  the  door, 

And  brought  a  load  of  meat  ; 
Boys  rubbed  their  hands,  and  cried  '  there's  more,' 

Dogs  wagged  their  tails  to  sce't. 

1  In  Suffolk  husbandry  the  man  who  (whether  by  merit  or  by  sufferance  I 
know  not)  goes  foremost  through  the  harvest  with  the  scythe  or  the  sickle  is 
honoured  with  the  title  of  '  Lord,"  and  at  the  Horkey,  or  harvest-home  feast, 
collects  what  he  can,  for  himself  and  brethren,  from  the  farmers  and  visitors,  to 
make  a  "frolic"  afterwards,  called  "the  largess  spending."  By  way  of  return- 
ing thanks,  though  perhaps  formerly  of  much  more  or  of  difterent  signification, 
they  immcdintciy  leave  th.e  seat  of  festivity,  and  with  a  very  long  and  repeated 
shout  of  "  a  largess,"  the  number  of  shouts  being  regulated  by  the  sums  given, 
seem  to  wish  to  make  themselves  heard  by  the  people  of  the  surrounding  farms. 
And,  before  they  rejoin  the  company  within,  the  pranks  and  the  jollity  I  have 
endeavoured  to  describe  usually  take  place. 


BLOOMFIELD.  303 

"  On  went  the  boilers  till  the  hake  ^ 

Had  much  ado  to  bear  'em  ; 
The  magpie  talked  for  talking  sake, 

Eirds  sung  ; — but  who  could  hear  'em  ? 

"  Creak  went  the  jack  ;  the  cats  were  scared, 

We  had  not  time  to  heed  'em  ; 
The  owd  bins  cackled  in  the  yard, 

For  we  forgot  to  feed  'em  ! 

"  Yet  'twas  not  I,  as  I  may  say. 

Because  as  how,  d'ye  see, 
I  only  helped  there  for  the  day  ; 
They  couldn't  lay't  to  me. 

"Now  Mrs.  Cheerum's  best  lace  cap 

Was  mounted  on  her  head  ; 
Guests  at  the  door  began  to  rap, 

And  now  the  cloth  was  spread. 

"  Then  clatter  went  the  earthen  plates — 

'  Mind,  Judie,'  was  the  cry  ; 
I  could  have  cop't "  them  at  their  pates  ; 

'  Trenchers  for  me,'  said  I, — 

'"That  look  so  clean  upon  the  ledge, 

And  never  mind  a  fall, 
Nor  never  turn  a  sharp  knife's  edge  ; — 

But  fa,shion  rules  us  all.' 

"  Home  came  the  jovial  Horkey  load, 

Last  of  the  whole  year's  crop  ; 
And  Grace  amongst  the  green  boughs  rode 

Right  plump  upon  the  top. 

"  This  way  and  that  the  waggon  reeled. 

And  never  queen  rode  higher  ; 
He)'  cheeks  were  coloured  in  the  field, 

And  ours  before  the  fire. 

*''  The  laughing  harvest-folks,  and  John, 

Came  in  and  looked  askew  ; 
'Twas  my  red  face  that  set  them  on, 

And  then  they  leered  at  Sue. 

"And  Farmer  Chcerum  went,  good  man, 

And  broached  the  Horkey  beer  ; 
And  sich  a  mort  ^  of  folks  began 

To  eat  up  our  good  cheer. 

1  A  sliding  pot-hook.  2  Thrown.  3  Suoh  a  number. 


304  BLOOMFIELD. 

"  Says  he,  '  Thank  God  for  what's  before  us  ; 

That  tluis  we  meet  again  ;' 
The  mingling  voices,  like  a  chorus, 

Joined  cheerfully,  '  Amen.' — 

"  Welcome  and  plenty,  there  they  found  'em  ; 

The  ribs  of  beef  grew  light ; 
And  puddings — till  the  boys  got  round  'em, 

And  then  they  vanished  quite. 

"  Now  all  the  guests,  with  Farmer  Crouder, 

Began  to  prate  of  com  ; 
And  we  found  out  they  talked  the  louder, 

The  oftener  passed  the  horn. 

"  Out  came  the  nuts  ;  we  set  a-cracking. 

The  ale  came  round  our  way  ; 
By  gom,  we  women  fell  a-clacking 
As  loud  again  as  they. 

"John  sung  'Old  Eenbow'  loud  and  stroftg, 
And  I,  '  The  Constant  Swain  ; ' 

*  Cheer  up,  my  Lads,'  was  Simon's  song, 
-'  We'll  conquer  them  again.' 

"Now  twelve  o'clock  was  drawing  nigh, 
And  all  in  merry  cue  ; 
^  T  knocked  the  cask  :  '  O  ho  ! '  said  I, 

'  We've  almost  conquered  you.' 

"My  Lord  begged  round,  and  held  his  hat ; — 

Says  Farmer  Gruff,  says  he, 
'There's  many  a  Lord,  Sam,  1  know  that, 

Has  begged  as  well  as  thee.' 

"Bump  in  his  hat  the  shillings  tumbled 
All  round  among  the  folks  ; 
Laugh  if  you  wool,'  said  Sam,  and  mumbled, 
'  You  pay  for  all  your  jokes.' 

"Joint  stock,  you  know,  among  the  men. 
To  drink  at  tlieir  own  charges  ; 

So  up  they  got  full  drive,  and  then 
Went  out  to  halloo  largess. 

"  And  sure  enough  the  noise  they  made  !- — 

— But  let  me  mind  my  tale  ; 
We  followed  them,  we  wor'nt  afraid, 

We  had  all  been  drinking  ale. 


BLOOMFIELD.  30S 

"  As  they  stood  hallooing  back  to  back, 

We,  lightly  as  a  feather, 
Went  sideling  round,  and  in  a  crack 
'     Had  pinned  their  coats  together. 

"  'Twas  near  upon't  as  light  as  noon  ; 

'  A  largess,'  on  the  hill, 
They  shouted  to  the  full  round  moon, — 

I  think  I  hear  'em  still  \ 

"  But  when  they  found  the  trick,  my  stars  ! 

They  well  knew  who  to  blame  ; 
Our  giggles  turned  to  ha  ha  ha's, 

And  arter  us  they  came. 

"  Grace  by  the  tumbril  made  a  squat, 

Then  ran  as  Sam  came  by ; 
They  said  she  could  not  run  for  fat, — 

I  know  she  did  not  try. 

'•'  Sue  round  the  neathouse  ^  squalling  ran, 

Where  Simon  scarcely  dare  ; 
He  stopped, — for  he's  a  fearful  man 

'  By  gom  there's  suffen  -  there  ! 

*'  And  off  set  John,  with  all  his  might, 

To  chase  me  down  the  yard, 
Till  I  was  nearly  graned  ^  outright ; 

He  hugged  so  woundly  hard. 

"  Still  they  kept  up  the  race  and  laugh, 

And  round  the  house  we  flew  ; 
But  hark  ye  !  the  best  fun  by  half 

Was  Simon  arter  Sue. 

"  She  cared  not,  dark  nor  light,  not  she  ; 

So,  near  the  dairy  door 
She  passed  a  clean  white  hog,  you  see. 

They'd  kilt  the  day  before. 

"  High  on  the  spirket  ^  there  it  hung, — 

'Now  Susie — what  can  save  ye?' 
Round  the  cold  pig  his  arms  he  flung. 

And  cried  .'  Ah  !  here  I  have  ye  ! ' 

"  The  farmers  heard  what  Simon  said, 

And  what  a  noise  !  good  lack  ! 
Some  almost  laughed  themselves  to  dead, 

And  others  clapped  his  back. 

1  Cow-house.  "  Something.  '^  Strangled.  ''  An  iron  hook. 

U 


3o6  BLOOI\IFIELD. 


"  We  all  at  once  began  to  tell 

What  fun  we  had  abroad  ; 
But  Simon  stood  our  jeers  right  well  ; 

— He  fell  asleep  and  snored. 

"Then  in  his  button-hole  upright 

Did  Farmer  Crouder  put 
A  slip  of  paper  twisted  tight. 

And  held  the  candle  to't. 

"It  smoked,  and  smoked,  beneath  his  nose, 

The  liarmless  blaze  crept  higher  ; 
Till  with  a  vengeance  up  he  rose, 

'  Grace,  Judie,  Sue  !  fire,  fire  1' 

"  The  clock  struck  one — some  talked  of  parting, 

Some  said  it  was  a  sin, 
And  hitched  their  chairs  ;—  but  those  for  starting 

Now  let  the  moonlight  in. 

"  Owd  women,  loitering  for  the  nonce,^ 

Stood  praising  the  fine  weather  ; 
The  menfolks  took  the  hint  at  once 

To  kiss  them  all  together. 

"  And  out  ran  eveiy  soul  beside, 

A  shanny-pated  ®  crew  ; 
Owd  folks  could  neither  run  nor  hide, 

So  some  ketched  one,  some  tew. 

"  They  skriggled  ^  and  began  to  scold, 

But  laughing  got  the  master  ; 
Some  quackling  ■*  cried,  'let  go  your  hold  ;' 

The  farmers  held  the  faster. 

"  All  innocent,  that  I'll  be  sworn. 

There  wor'nt  a  bit  of  sorrow  ; 
And  women,  if  their  gowns  arc  torn, 

Can  mend  them  on  the  morrow. 

"  Our  shadows  helter  skelter  danced 

About  the  moonlight  ground  ; 
The  wondering  sheep,  as  on  we  pranced, 

Got  up  and  gazed  around. 

"  And  well  they  might — till  Farmer  Cheerura 

Now  with  a  hearty  glee 
Bade  all  good  morn  as  he  came  near  'em, 

And  then  to  bed  went  he. 

1  For  the  purpose.  ^  Giddy,  thoughtless. 

3  To  struggle  quick.  *  Choking. 


MiLLmm.  30? 


"  Then  off  we  strolled  this  way  and  that, 

With  merry  voices  ringing  ; 
And  Echo  answered  us  right  pat, 

As  home  we  rambled  singing. 

"  For,  when  we  laughed,  it  laughed  again, 

And  to  our  own  doors  followed. 
'  Yo  ho  !'  we  cried  ;  '  Yo  ho  ! '  so  plain 

The  misty  meadow  hallooed. 

That's  all  my  tale,  and  all  the  fun  ; 

Come,  turn  your  wheels  about  ; 
My  worsted,  see  ! — that's  nicely  done, 

Just  held  my  story  out !" 

Poor  Judie  ! — Thus  Time  knits  or  spins 

The  worsted  from  Life's  ball  ! 
Death  stopped  thy  tales,  and  stopped  thy  pins, 

—  And  so  he'll  serve  us  all. 


RICHARD  ALFRED  MILLIKIN. 

[Born  in  tlie  county  of  Cork,  1767  ;  died  in  1815.  Was  an  attorney  in  Cork, 
but  not  very  zealous  in  his  profession,  having  more  taste  for  literature  and  for 
drawing.  He  had  some  reputation  as  an  amateur  artist,  and  was  active  in 
founding  a  Society  for  the  Promotion  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  Cork.  He  publ.LAed 
The  Riverside,  a  blank-verse  poem,  in  1S07.  One  of  his  compositions  was  the 
famous  S(mg,T/ie  Groves  0/  Blarney. 

THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  PASSAGE.l 

O  FAIR  maid  of  Passage, 

As  plump  as  a  sassage, 
And  as  mild  as  a  kitten. 

Those  eyes  in  your  face  ! — 

Yerrah  !  pity  my  case. 
For  poor  Dermuid  is  smitten  ! 

Far  softer  nor  silk. 

And  more  white  than  new  milk, 
Oh  your  lily-white  hand  is  ; 

Your  lips  red  as  cherries. 

And  your  eyes  like  blackberries, 
And  you're  straight  as  a  wand  is  ! 

Your  talk  is  so  quare. 

And  your  sweet  curly  hair. 
Is  as  black  as  the  devil ; 

And  your  breath  is  as  sweet,  too. 

As  any  potatoe, 
Or  orange  from  Seville. 

'  Passage  is  the  town  now  named  Queepstown,  Cork. 


3o8  QUIN. 


When  dressed  in  her  boddice 

She  trips  Hke  a  goddess, 
So  nimble,  so  frisky  ; 

One  kiss  from  her  cheek, 

'Tis  so  soft  and  so  sleek 
That  'twould  warm  me  like  whisky. 

So  I  sobs  and  I  pine, 

And  I  grmits  like  a  swine. 
Because  you're  so  cruel  j 

No  rest  can  I  take, 

All  asleep  or  awake, 
But  I  dreams  of  my  jewel. 

Your  hate,  then,  give  over, 

Nor  Dermuid,  your  lover. 
So  cruelly  handle  ; 

Or,  faith,  Dermuid  must  die. 

Like  a  pig  in  a  stye, 
Or  the  snuff  of  a  candle. 


.  SIMON  QUIN.i 

THE  TOWN  OF  PASSAGE. 

The  town  of  Passage  is  neat  and  spacious. 

All  situated  upon  the  sea ; 
^  The  ships  a-floating,  and  the  youths  a-boating, 

With  their  cotton  coats  on  each  summer's  day. 
'Tis  there  you'd  see,  both  night  and  morning. 

The  men  of  war,  with  fresh-flowing  sails  ; 
The  bould  lieutenants,  and  the  tars  so  jolly, 

All  steering  for  Cork  in  a  hackney  chaise. 

'Tis  there's  a  stature  drawn  after  nature, 

A  leaping  from  the  mud  upon  the  dry  land  ; 
A  lion  or  a  leopard,  or  some  fierce  creature. 

With  a  Reading-made-easy  all  in  his  hand.* 
There's  a  rendez-vous  house  for  each  bould  hero 

For  to  take  on,  whose  heart  beats  high  ; 
The  colours  a-drooping,  and  the  children's  rockets 

All  pinned  across  it,  hanging  out  to  dry. 

'Tis  there's  a  Strand  too,  that's  decked  with  oar-weeds. 
And  tender  gob-stones  ^  and  mussel-shells  ; 

And  there's  skeehories,^  and  what  still  more  is, 
A  comely  fresh-flowing  water  rill. 

1  I  am  unable  to  Rive  any  particulars  concerning  this  writer.  His  poem  is 
inserted  in  Crofton  Crokex's  Popular  Songs  of  Ireland,  1839:  it  appears  to  be 
the  first  form  of  a  ballad  which  has  been  retouched  by  various  hands,  and  has 
been  popular  under  all. 

^  The  figure-head  of  an  old  ship.       3  Round  pebbles.''   «  Hawthorn  berries. 


LEWIS.  309 


'Tis  there  the  ladies,  when  break  of  day  is, 

And  tender  lovers,  do  often  pelt ; 
Some  a-airing  and  some  a-bathing. 

All  mother-naked,  to  enjoy  their  health. 

And  there's  a  ferry-boat  that's  quite  convenient, 

Where  man  and  horses  do  take  a  ride  ; 
'Tis  there  in  clover  you  may  pass  over 

To  Carrigaloe  on  the  other  side. 
There  may  be  seen  O  !  the  sweet  Marino,^ 

With  its  trees  so  green  O  !  and  fruit  so  red  ; 
Brave  White  Point,  and  right  foment  it 

The  Giant's  Stairs,  and  sweet  Horse's  Head. 

There's  a  house  of  lodgings  at  one  Molly  Bowen's, 

Where  often  goes  in  one  Simon  Quin  ; 
Oh  !  'tis  there  without  a  coat  on,  you'd  hear  her  grope  on 

The  door  to  open,  to  let  him  in. 
Then  straight  up  stairs  one  pair  of  windows, 

With  but  the  slates  betwixt  him  and  the  sky ; 
Oh  'tis  there  till  morning  the  fleas  all  swarming 

Do  keep  him  warm  in  where  he  does  lie. 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 

'  tSorn  in  London  in  1773,  son  of  a  West-India  planter,  and  depntj'-secretary 
in  Ihe  War-Office  ;  died  in  the  Gulf  of  Florida,  July  1S18.  Lewis  was  partly 
educated  in  Germany,  which  may  have  served  to  develop  his  peculiar  taste 
for  the  horrible,  supernatural,  and  grotesque.  His  first  work  was  the  once 
highly  celebrated  romance  of  The  Monk,  published  in  1795  :  hence  his  ordi- 
naVy  nickname  "Monk  Lewis."  Talcs  of  Terror,  Tales  0/  Wonder,  and 
other  volumes  in  verse  and  in  prose,  followed  :  his  play  of  The  Castle  spectre 
was  a  consuicuous  public  success.  Lewis  entered  parliament,  but  soon  retired 
thence.  lie  was  a  man  of  fishion,  of  a  volatile  mercurial  nature,  which,  along 
with  his  very  diminutive  stalure,  exposed  him  to  some  ridicule.  At  the  same 
time,  he  was  truly  good-hearted,  and  in  many  respects  estimable  :  \Valter^Scott 
has  termed  him  "  one  of  the  kindest  and  best  creatures  that  ever  lived."  He 
took  two' voyages  to  the  West  Lidies,  in  1S15  and  1817,  to  look  after  his  pro- 
perty there,  and  jiartly  to  assure  himself  that  the  slaves  upon  his  estates  re- 
ceived humane  ticatment.  It  was  on  returning  from  the  second  of  these 
voyacjes  that  he  died  at  sea,  of  a  fever.  At  first  it  was  rumoured  lh.it  his  phil- 
anthropic feelings  had  cost  him  his  life :  one  of  his  slaves  was  said  to  have 
given  him  poison,  in  order  to  hasten  the  emancipation  which,  as  announced  by 
Lewis  himself,  would  be  accorded  to  all  of  them  on  the  occurrence  of  his 
death]. 

GRIM,  KING  OF  THE  GHOSTS;  OR,  THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

A  CHUKCHVARD  TALE. 

"  Why,  how  now,  old  sexton?  why  sliake  you  with  dread? 

Why  haunt  you  this  street,  wlicre  you're  sure  to  catch  cold? 
Full  warm  is  your  blanket,  full  snug  is  your  bed  ! 

And  long  since,  by  tiie  steeple-chimes,  twelve  has  been  told." 

1  The  scat  of  Savage  French,  Esq.,  on  the  Great  Island. 


Jio  LEWIS. 


"  Tom  Tap,  on  this  night  my  retreat  you'll  approve, 

For  my  churchyard  will  swarm  with  its  shroud-covered  hosts; 

\Yho  will  tell,  with  loud  shriek,  that  resentment  and  love 
J:till  nip  the  cold  heart  of  Grim,  King  of  the  Ghosts. 

"  One  eve,  as  the  fiend  wandered  through  the  thick  gloom, 
Towards  my  newly-tiled  cot  he  directed  his  sight ; 

And,  casting  a  glance  in  my  litrle  back-room. 

Gazed  on  Nancy,  my  daughter,  with  wanton  delight. 

"  Yet  Nancy  was  proud,  and  disdainful  was  she, 
In  affection's  fond  speech  she'd  no  pleasure  or  joy  ; 

And  vainly  he  sued,  though  he  knelt  at  her  knee, 
Bob  Brisket,  so  comely,  the  young  butcher's  boy  ! 

"  '  For  you,  dearest  Nancy,  I've  oft  been  a  thief. 

Yet  my  theft  it  was  venial,  a  theft  if  it  be  ; 
For  who  could  have  eyes,  and  not  see  you  loved  beef? 

Or  who  see  a  steak  and  not  steal  it  for  thee  ? 

"  '  Remember,  dear  beauty,  dead  flesh  cannot  feel ; 

With  frowns  you  my  heart  and  its  passion  requite ; 
Yet  oft  have  I  seen  you,  when  hungry  at  meal, 

On  a  dead  bullock's  heart  gaze  with  tender  delight. 

"  '  When  you  dress  it  for  dinner,  so  hard  and  so  tough, 
I  wish  the  employ  your  stern  breast  would  improve  ; 

And,  the  dead  bullock's  heart  while  with  onions  you  stuff, 
You  would  stuff  your  own  heart,  cruel  virgin,  with  love.' 

"  '  Young  rascal !  presum'st  thou,  with  butcher-like  phrase. 

To  foul  stinking  onions  7)iy  love  to  compare. 
Who  have  set  Wick,  the  candle-man,  all  in  a  blaze, 

And  Alderman  Paunch,  who  has  since  been  the  Mayor  ? 

"  '  You  bid  me  remember  dead  flesh  cannot  feel  ? 

Then  I  vow,  by  my  father's  old  pickaxe  and  spade, 
Till  some  prince  from  tlie  tombs  shall  behave  so  genteel 

As  to  ask  me  to  wed,  I'll  continue  a  maid  ! 

"  '  Nor  him  will  I  wed,  till  (these  terms  must  he  own) 
Of  my  two  first  commands  the  performance  he  boasts.' — 

Straight,  instead  of  a  footman,  a  deep-pealing  groan 
Announced  the  approach  of  Grim,  King  of  the  Ghosts  ! 

"  No  flesh  had  the  spectre,  his  skeleton  skull 

Was  loosely  wrapped  round  with  a  brown  shrivelled  skin  ; 

Ilis  bones,  'stead  of  marrow,  of  maggots  were  full. 

And  the  worms  they  crawled  out,  and  the  worms  they  crawled  in. 


LEWIS.  311 


"  His  shoes  they  were  coffins,  his  dim  eye  revealed 
The  gleam  of  a  grave-lamp  with  vapours  oppressed  ; 

And  a  dark  crimson  necklace  of  blood-drops  congealed 
Reflected  each  bone  that  jagged  out  of  his  breast. 

"  In  a  hoarse  hollow  whisper—'  Thy  beauties,'  he  cried, 

'  Have  drawn  up  a  spirit  to  give  thee  a  kiss  ; 
No  butcher  shall  call  thee,  proud  Nancy,  his  bride  ; 

The  grim  King  of  Spectres  demands  thee  for  his. 

"  '  j\Iy  name  frightens  infants,  my  word  raises  ghosts. 

My  tread  wakes  the  echoes  which  breathe  through  the  aisle  ; 

And  lo  !  here  stands  the  Prince  of  the  Churchyard,  who  boasts 
The  will  to  perform  thy  commands,  for  a  smile. ' 

"  He  said,  and  he  kissed  her  :  she  packed  up  her  clothes, 
And  straight  they  eloped  through  the  window  with  joy  ; 

Yet  long  in  her  ears  rang  the  curses  and  oaths 

Which  growled  at  his  rival  the  gruff  butcher's  boy. 

"  At  the  chamel-house  palace  soon  Nancy  arrived, 
When  the  fiend,  with  a  grin  ^vhich  her  soul  did  appal, 

Exclaimed — '  I  must  w^arn  my  pale  subjects  I'm  wived. 
And  bid  them  prepare  a  grand  supper  and  ball  ! ' — 

"  Thrice  swifter  than  thought  on  his  heel  round  he  turns, 
Three  capers  he  cut,  and  then  motionless  stood  ; 

Then  on  cards,  made  of  dead  men's  skin,  Nancy  discerns 
His  lank  fingers  to  scrawl  invitations  in  blood. 

"  His  quill  was  a  wind-pipe,  his  ink-horn  a  skull, 
A  blade-bone  his  pen-knife,  a  tooth  was  his  seal  ; 

Soon  he  ordered  the  cards,  in  a  voice  deep  and  dull, 
To  haste  and  invite  all  his  friends  to  the  meal. 

"  Away  flew  the  cards  to  the  south  and  the  north. 
Away  flew  the  cards  to  the  east  and  the  west ; 

Straight  with  groans,  from  their  tombs,  the  pale  spectres  stalked 
forth, 
In  deadly  apparel  and  shrouding-sheets  dressed. 

"  And  quickly  scared  Nancy,  with  anxious  affright, 
Hears  the  tramp  of  a  steed,  and  a  knock  at  the  gate  ; 

On  an  hcll-horse  so  gaunt  'twas  a  grim  ghastly  sprite, 
On  a  pillion  behind  a  she-skeleton  sate  ! 

"  The  poor  maiden  she  thought  'twas  a  dream  or  a  trance. 
While  the  guests  they  assembled  gigantic  and  tall ; 

Each  spj-jte  asked  a  skeleton  lady  to  dance. 

And  king  Grim  with  fair  Nancy  now  opened  the  ball. 


3r2  LEWIS. 

"  Pale  spectres  send  music  from  dark  A^aults  above. 

Withered  legs,  'stead  of  drum-sticks,  they  lflra,ndish  on  high  ; 

Grinning  ghosts,  slieeted  spirits,  skipping  skeletons,  move, 
While  hoarse  whispers  and  rattling  of  bones  shake  the  sky. 

"  With  their  plialjle  joints  the  Scotch  steps  they  do  well, 
Nancy's  hand  with  their  cold  clammy  fingers  they  squeeze ; 

Now  sudden,  appalled,  the  maid  hears  a  death-bell, 
And  straight  dai-k  and  dismal  the  supper  she  sees  ! 

*■'  A  tomb  was  the  table  r  now  each  took  his  seat, 
Every  sprite  next  his  partner  so  pale  and  so  wan. 

Soon  as  ceased  was  the  rattling  of  skeleton  feet. 
The  clattering  of  jaw-bones  directly  began. 

"  Of  dead  aldei-men's  fat  the  mould  candles  were  made, 
Stuck  in  sockets  of  bone  they  gleamed  dimly  and  blue  : 

Their  dishes  M-ere  scutcheons,  and  corses  decayed 
Were  the  viands  that  glutted  this  ravenous  crew  ! 

"  Through  the  nostrils  of  skulls  their  blood-liquor  they  ponr, 
The  black  draught  in  the  heads  of  young  infants  they  quaff. 

The  vice-president  rose,  with  his  jaws  dripping  gore, 
And  addressed  the  pale  damsel  with  horrible  laugh. 

"  '  Feast,  Queen  of  the  Ghosts  !  the  repast  do  not  scorn  ; 

Feast,  Queen  of  the  Ghosts  !  I  perceive  thou  hast  food  ; 
To-morrow  again  shall  we  feast,  for  at  noon 

Shall  we  feast  on  thy  flesh,  shall  we  drmk  of  thy  blood.'— 

"  Then  cold  as  a  cucumber  Nancy  she  grew  ; 

Her  ]5roud  stomach  came  down,  and  she  blared,  and  she  cried, 
'  Oh  tell  me,  dear  Grim,  does  that  spectre  speak  tnie, 

And  will  you  not  save  from  his  clutches  your  bride  ?  ' 

"  '  Vain  yonr  gi'ief,  silly  maid  ;  when  the  matin-bells  ring, 
The  bond  becomes  due  whicli  long  since  did  I  sign  ; 

For  she  who  at  night  weds  the  grizzly  Ghost  King 

Next  morn  must  be  dressed  for  his  subjects  to  dine.' — 

"  '  In  silks  and  in  satins  forw?-;  I'll  be  dressed  ; 

My  soft  tender  limbs  let  their  fangs  never  crunch.'  " — 
'  Fair  Nancy,  yon  ghosts,  should  I  grant  your  request. 

Instead  of  at  dinner  would  eat  you  at  lunch  I' — 

"  '  But  vain,  ghostly  King,  is  your  cunning  and  guile  ; 

That  bond  must  be  void  which  you  never  can  pay  ; 
Lo  !  I  ne'er  will  be  yours,  till,  to  purchase  my  smile, 

My  two  first  commands  (as  you  swore)  you  obey.' 


sou  THEY.  313 


"  '  Well  say'st  thou,  fair  Nancy  ;   thy  wishes  impart ; 

But  think  not  to  puzzle  Grim,  King  of  the  Ghosts.' 
"  Straight  she  turns  o'er  each  difficult  task  in  her  heart, 

And — '  I've  found  out  a  poser,'  exultingly  boasts. 

"  '  You  vowed  that  no  'butcher  should  call  me  his  bride. 

That  this  vow  you  fulfil  my  first  asking  shall  be  ; 
And,  since  so  many  maids  in  your  clutches  have  died, 

Than  yourself  show  a  bloodier  butcher,'' — said  she. 

"  Then  shrill  scream  tlie  spectres  ;   the  charnel-house  gloom 
Swift  lightnings  disperse,  and  the  palace  destroy; 

Again  Nancy  stood  in  the  little  back-room. 

And  again  at  her  knee  knelt  the  young  butcher's  boy  ! 

"  'I'll  have  done  with  dead  husbands,'  she  Brisket  bespeaks  ; 

'  I'll  now  take  a  live  one,  so  fetch  me  a  ring  ! ' — 
And  when  pressed  to  her  lips  were  his  red  beefin  cheeks,  _ 

She  loved  him  much  more  than  the  shrivelled  Ghost  King. 

"  No  longer  his  steaks  and  his  cutlets  she  spurns, 
No  longer  he  fears  his  grim  rival's  pale  band  ; 

Yet  still  when  the  famed ^r^Z"  of  April  returns, 
The  sprites  rise  in  squadrons,  and  Nancy  demand. 

"  This  informs  you,  Tom  Tap.  why  to-night  I  remove. 
For  I  dread  the  approach  of  the  shroud -covered  hosts, 

Who  tell,  with  loud  shriek,  that  resentment  and  love 
Still  nip  the  cold  heart  of  Grim,  King  of  the. Ghosts  !" 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

[Bom  in  Bristol,  the  son  of  a  Imen-drnper,  4  October  1774  ;  died,  21  March 
1843.  In  the  opening  years  of  the  French  Revolution,  Southey  was  a  free- 
thinker in  both  politics  und  religion  :  but  this  phase  of  feeling  soon  passed,  anil 
he  became  as  doggedly  conservative  in  his  own  person  as  he  was  pertinaciously 
virulent  against  thinkers  of  a  different  school.  'J'o  name  Byron  and  Shelley  is, 
at  the  present  dav,  to  reduce  Southey  almost  to  a  condition  of  ignominy.  I  his 
is  a  fitting  retribution.  Nevertheless  the  literary  enquirer  will  discover  Southey 
to  have  been  a  man  of  marked  ability,  with  much  ambition  and  variety  of  aini 
as  a  ptjet,  and  some  vocation  too,  if  aptitude  could  be  regarded  ?i?,/nciilty  in 
poetic  matters  :  and,  along  with  these  merits  as  a  man  of  letters,  the  uniform 
testimony  of  those  who  knew  him  establishes  Southey's  sterling  personal  quail, 
ties.  He  settled  at  Hrcta,  near  Keswick,  Cumberland,  towards  1804  ;  and  sue 
cecded  Pye  as  Poet  Laureate  in  1813]. 

TO  A  GOOSE. 
If  thou  didst  feed  on  western  plains  of  yore  ; 
Or  waddle  wide  witJi  flat  and  flabby  feet 
Over  some  Cambrian  mountain's  plashy  moor; 
Or  find  in  farmer's  yard  a  safe  retreat 
From  gipsy  thieves,  and  foxes  sly  and  fleet ; 
If  thy  great  quills,  by  lawyer  guided,  trace 
Deeds  big  with  ruin  to  some  wretched  race. 


314  SOUTHEY. 


Or  love-sick  poet's  sonnet,  sad  and  sweet, 
Wailing  the  rigour  of  his  lady  fair  ; 
Or  if)  the  drudge  of  housemaid's  daily  toil, 
Cobwebs  and  dust  thy  pinions  white  besoil, 
Departed  Goose  !  I  neither  know  nor  care. 
But  this  I  know,  that  we  pronounced  thee  fine, 
Seasoned  with  sage  and  onions,  and  port  wine. 


THE  POET  RELATES  HOW  HE  STOLE  A  LOCK  OF  BELLA'S 
HAIR,  AND  HER  ANGER. 

Oh  !  be  the  day  accurst  that  gave  me  birth  ! 

Ye  seas,  to  swallow  me,  in  kindness  rise  ! 
Fall  on  me,  mountains  !  and  thou,  merciful  earth, 

Open,  and  hide  me  from  my  Delia's  eyes  ! 

Let  universal  chaos  now  return, 

Now  let  the  central  fires  their  prison  burst, 

And  earth  and  heaven  and  air  and  ocean  burn — 
For  Delia  frowns — she  frowns,  and  I  am  curst  ! 

Oh  !  I  could  dare  the  fury  of  the  fight, 

Where  hostile  millions  sought  my  single  life  ; 

Would  storm  volcano  batteries  with  delight. 
And  grapple  with  grim  death  in  glorious  strife. 

Oh  !  I  could  brave  the  bolts  of  angry  Jove, 

When  ceaseless  lightnings  fire  the  midnight  skies  ; 

What  is  his  wrath  to  that  of  her  I  love  ? 
What  is  his  lightning  to  my  Delia's  eyes? 

Go,  fatal  lock  !  I  cast  thee  to  the  wind  ; 

Ye  serpent  curls,  ye  poison-tendrils,  go  ! 
Would  I  could  tear  thy  memory  from  my  mind, 

Accursed  lock, — thou  cause  of  all  my  woe  ! 

Seize  the  curst  curls,  ye  Furies,  as  they  fly  ! 

Demons  of  darkness,  guard  the  infernal  roll, 
That  thence  your  cruel  vengeance,  when  I  die, 

May  knit  the  knots  of  torture  for  my  soul. 

Last  night, — Oh  hear  me,  Heaven,  and  grant  my  prayer  ! 

The  book  of  fate  before  thy  suppliant  lay. 
And  let  me  from  its  ample  records  tear 

Only  the  single  page  of  yesterday. 

Or  let  me  meet  old  Time  upon  his  flight. 
And  I  will  stop  him  on  his  restless  way  : 

Omnipotent  in  Love's  resistless  might, 
I'll  force  him  back  the  road  of  yesterday. 


SOUTHEY.  315 


Last  night,  as  o'er  the  page  of  love's  despair 

My  Delia  bent  deliciously  to  grieve, 
I  stood  a  treacherous  loiterer  by  her  chair, 

And  drew  the  fatal  scissors  from  my  sleeve  ; 

And  would  that  at  that  instant  o'er  my  thread 
The  shears  of  Atropos  had  opened  then, 

And,  when  I  reft  the  lock  from  Delia's  head, 
Plad  cut  me  sudden  from  the  sons  of  men  ! 

She  heard  the  scissors  that  fair  lock  divide  ; 

And,  whilst  my  heart  with  transport  panted  big, 
She  cast  a  fury  frown  on  me,  and  cried, 

' '  You  stupid  Puppy, — you  have  spoiled  my  wig  ! ' 


EPISTLE  TO  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

Wkll,  Heaven  be  thanked  !  friend  Allan,  here  I  am, 

Once  more  to  that  dear  dwelling-place  returned 

Where  I  have  passed  the  whole  mid  stage  of  life, 

Not  idly,  certes  ;  not  unworthily, — • 

So  let  me  hope  :  where  Time  upon  my  head 

Hath  laid  his  frore  and  monitory  hand  ; 

And  when  this  poor  frail  earthly  tabernacle 

Shall  be  dissolved, — it  matters  not  how  soon 

Or  late,  in  God's  good  time, — where  I  would  fain 

Be  gathered  to  my  children,  earth  to  earth. 

Needless  it  were  to  say  how  willingly 
I  bade  the  huge  metropolis  farewell, 
Its  din,  and  dust,  and  dirt,  and  smoke,  and  smut, 
Thames  water,  paviour's  ground,  and  London  sky  ; 
Weary  of  hurried  days  and  restless  nights, 
Watchmen,  whose  office  is  to  murder  sleep 
When  sleep  miglit  else  have  weighed  one's  eyelids  down, 
Rattle  of  carriages,  and  roll  of  carts, 
And  tramp  of  iron  hoofs  ;  and  worse  than  all 
(Confusion  being  worse  confounded  then 
With  coachmen's  quarrels  and  with  footmen's  shouts) 
My  next-door  neighbours,  in  a  street  not  yet 
Macadamized,  (me  miserable  !)  at  hot/ic; 
For  then  had  we  from  midnight  until  morn 
House-quakes,  street-thunders,  and  door-batterieS. 
O  Government !  in  thy  wisdom  and  thy  want, 
Tax  knockers; — in  compassion  to  the  sick, 
And  those  whose  sober  habits  are  not  yet 
Inverted,  topsy-turvying  night  and  day. 
Tax  them  more  heavily  than  thou  hast  charged 
Armorial  bearings  and  bepowdered  pates. 


31 6  SOUTHEY. 


And  thou,  O  iMichael,  ever  to  be  praised, 

Angelic  among  Taylors,  for  thy  laws 

Antifuliginous,  extend  those  laws 

Till  every  chimney  its  own  smoke  consume, 

And  give  thenceforth  thy  dinners  unlampooned. 

Escaping  from  all  this,  the  very  whirl 

Of  mail-coach  wheels  bound  outward  from  Lad-lane 

AVas  peace  and  quietness.     Three  hundred  miles 

Of  homeward  way  seemed  to  the  body  rest, 

And  to  the  mind  repose. 

Donne^  did  not  hate 
More  perfectly  that  city.     Not  for  all 
Its  social,  all  its  intellectual  joys, — 
Which  having  touched,  I  may  not  condescend 
To  name  aught  else  the  Demon  of  the  place 
]\Iight  for  his  lure  hold  forth, — not  even  for  these 
Would  I  forego  gardens  and  green- field  walks, 
And  hedge-Fow  trees,  and  stiles,  and  shady  lanes, 
And  orchards,  were  such  ordinary  scenes 
Alone  to  me  accessible  as  those 
Wherein  I  learnt  in  infancy  to  love 

-The  sights  and  sounds  of  nature; — wholesome  sfghts 
Gladdening  the  eye  that  they  refresh  ;  and  sounds 
Which,  Avhen  from  life  and  happiness  they  spring, 
Bear  with  them  to  the  yet  unhardened  heart 
A  sense  that  thrills  its  chords  of  sympathy  j 

*Or,  when  proceeding  from  insensate  things, 
Give  to  tranquillity  a  voice  wherewith 
To  woo  the  ear  and  win  the  soul  attuned. — 
Oh  not  for  all  that  London  might  bestow 
Would  I  renounce  the  genial  influences 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  to  be  found  where'er 
We  breathe  beneath  the  open  sky,  and  see 
Earth's  liberal  bosom.     Judge  then  by  thyself, 
Allan,  true  child  of  Scotland,— thou  who  art' 
So  oft  in  spirit  on  thy  native  hills, 
And  yonder  Solway  shores, — a  poet  thou. 
Judge  by  thyself  how  strong  the  ties  which  bind 
A  poet  to  his  home';  when, — making  thus 
Large  recompense  for  all  that  haply  else 
Might  seem  perversely  or  imkindly  done, — 
Fortune  hath  set  his  happy  habitacle  . 
Among  the  ancient  hills,  near  mountain-streams 
And  lakes 'pellucid,  in  a  land  sublime 
And  lovely  as  those  regions  of  Romance 

1  This  poet  begins  his  second  Satire  thus: —  - 

"  Sir,  though  (I  thank  God  for  it)  I  do  hate 

Perfectly  all  this  town,  yet  there's  one  state 

In  all  ill  things  so  excellently  bjst 

That  hate  towards  them  breeds  pity  towards  the  rest." 


'  sou  THEY.  317 


Where  his  young  fancy  in  his  day-dreams  roamed, 
Expatiating  in  forests  wild  and  wide, 
Loegrian,  or  of  dearest  Faery-land. 

Yet,  Allan,  of  the  cup  of  social  joy 
No  man  drinks  freelier,  nor  with  heartier  thirst, 
Nor  keener  relish,  where  I  see  around 
Faces  which  I  have  known  and  loved  so  long 
That,  when  he  prints  a  dream  upon  my  brain, 
Dan  Morpheus  takes  them  for  his  readiest  types. 
And  therefore  in  that  loathed  metropolis 
Time  measured  out  to  me  some  golden  hours. 
They  were  not  leaden-footed  while  the  clay 
Beneath  the  patient  touch  of  Chantrey's  hand 
Grew  to  the  semblance  of  my  lineaments. 
Lit  up  in  memory's  landscape,  like  green  spots 
Of  sunshine,  are  the  mornings  when  in  tallc 
With  him  and  thee,  and  Bedford  (my  true  friend 
Of  forty  years),  I  saw  the  work  proceed. 
Subject  the  while  myself  to  no  restraint, 
But  pleasurably  in  frank  discourse  engaged : 
Pleased  too,  and  with  no  unbecoming  pride, 
To  think  this  countenance,  such  as  it  is. 
So  oft  by  rascally  misHkeness  wronged, 
Should  faithfully,  to  those  who  in  his  works 
Have  seen  the  inner  man  pourtrayed,  be  shown, 
And  in  enduring  marble  should  partake 
Of  our  great  sculptor's  immortality. 

I  have  been  libelled,  Allan,  as  thou  knowest, 
Through  all  degrees  of  calumny;  but  they 
Who  fix  one's  name  for  public  sale  beneath 
A  set  of  features  slanderously  unlike 
Are  the  worst  libellers.     Against  the  wrong 
Which  they  inflict  Time  hath  no  remedy. 
Injuries  there  are  which  Time  redresseth  best, 
Being  more  sure  in  judgment,  tliough  perhaps 
Slower  in  process  even,  than  the  court 
Where  Justice,  tortoise-footed  and  mole-eyed. 
Sleeps  undisturbed,  fanned  by  the  lulling  wings 
Of  harpies  at  their  prey.      We  soon  live  down 
Evil  or  good  report,  if  undeserved. 
Let  then  the  dogs  of  Faction  bark  and  bay. 
Its  bloodhounds,  savaged  by  a  cross  of  wolf. 
Its  full-bred  kennel  from  the  Blatant-beast  ; 
And  from  my  lady's  gay  veranda  let 
Her  pampered  lap-dog  with  his  fetid  breath 
In  bold  bravado  join,  and  snap  and  growl, 
With  petulant  conscqucntialness  elate. 
There  in  his  imbecility  at  once 


3i8  SOUTHEY. 


Ridiculous  and  safe  ;  though  all  give  cry, 
Whiggery's  sleek  spaniels,  and  its  lurchers  lean, 
Its  poodles  by  unlucky  training  marred, 
Mongrel  and  cur  and  iDob-tail,  let  them  yelp 
Till  weariness  and  hoarseness  shall  at  length 
Silence  the  noisy  pack  ;  meantime  be  Sure 
I  will  not  stoop  for  stones  to  cast  among  them. 
The  foumarts  and  the  skunks  may  be  secure 
In  their  own  scent  ;  and,  for  that  viler  swarm, 
The  vermin  of  the  press,  both  those  that  skip. 
And  those  that  creep  and  crawl,  I  do  not  catch 
And  pin  them  for  exposure  on  the  page, — 
Their  filth  is  their  defence. 

But  I  appeal 
Against  the  limner's  and  the  graver's  wrong  ; 
Their  evil  works  survive  them.     Bilderdijk 
Whom  I  am  privileged  to  call  my  friend, 
Suffering  by  graphic  libels  in  like  wise. 
Gave  his  wrath  vent  in  verse.     Would  I  could  give 
The  life  and  spirit  of  his  vigorous  Dutch, 
As  his  dear  consort  hath  transfused  7ny  strains 
Into  her  native  speech,  and  made  them  known 
On  Rhine  and  Yssel,  and  rich  Amstel's  banks, 
And  wheresoe'er  the  voice  of  Vondel  still 
Is  heard,  and  still  Antonides  and  Hooft 
Are  living  agencies,  and  Father  Cats, 
The  household  poet,  teacheth  in  his  songs 
The  love  of  all  things  lovely,  all  things  pure  : 
Best  poet,  who  delights  the  cheerful  mind 
Of  childhood,  stores  with  moral  strength  the  heart 
Of  youth,  with  wisdom  maketh  mid-life  rich, 
And  fills  with  quiet  tears  the  eyes  of  age. 

Hear  then  in  English  rhyme  how  Bilderdijk 
Describes  his  wicked  portraits,  one  by  one. 

"A  madman  who  from  Bedlam  hath  broke  loose; 

An  honest  fellow  of  tiie  numskull  race  ; 
And  pappyer-headed  still,  a  very  goose 

Staring  with  eyes  aghast  and  vacant  face  ; 
A  Frenchman  who  would  mirthfully  display 

On  sopie  poor  idiot  his  malicious  wit ; 
And  lastly  one  who,  trained  up  in  the  way 

Of  worldly  craft,  hath  not  forsaken  it, 
But  hath  served  Mammon  with  his  whole  intent, 

A  thing  of  Nature's  worst  materials  made, 
Low-minded,  stupid,  base,  and  insolent. 

I,  I,  a  poet,  have  been  thus  pourtrayed. 
Can  ye  believe  that  my  true  effigy 

Among  these  vile  varieties  is  found? 


SOUTHEY.  319 


What  thought,  or  line,  or  word,  hath  fallen  from  me 

In  all  my  numerous  works  whereon  to  ground 
The  opprobrious  notion  ?     Safely  I  may  smile 

At  these,  acknowledging  no  likeness  here. 
But  worse  is  yet  to  come  ;  so,  soft  awhile ! 

For  now  in  potter's  earth  must  I  appear, 
And  in  such  workmanship  that,  sooth  to  say. 

Humanity  disowns  the  imitation, 
And  the  dolt  image  is  not  worth  its  clay. 

Then  comes  there  one  who  will  to  admiration 
In  plastic  wax  my  perfect  face  present ; 

And  what  of  his  performance  comes  at  last? 
Folly  itself  in  every  lineament ! 

Its  consequential  features  overcast 
With  the  coxcombical  and  shallow  laugh 

Of  one  who  would  for  condescension  hide, 
Yet  in  his  best  behaviour  can  but  half 

Suppress,  the  scornfulness  of  empty  pride." 

"  And  who  is  Bilderdijk?"  methinks  thou  sayest  ; 
A  ready  question  ;  yet  which,  trust  me,  Allan, 
Would  not  be  asked,  had  not  the  curse  that  came 
From  Babel  clipped  the  wings  of  Poetry. 
Napoleon  asked  him  once  with  cold  fixed  look, 
"Art  thou  then  in  the  world  of  letters  known?" 
"I  have  deserved  to  be,"  the  Hollander 
Replied,  meeting  "that  proud  imperial  look 
With  calm  and  proper  confidence,  and  eye 
As  little  wont  to  turn  away  abashed 
Before  a  mortal  presence.     He  is  one 
Who  hath  received  ujDon  his  constant  breast 
The  sharpest  arrows  of  adversity ; 
Whom  not  the  clamours  of  the  multitude, 
Demanding  in  their  madness  and  their  might 
Iniquitous  things,  could  shake  in  his  firm  mind  ; 
Nor  the  strong  hand  of  instant  tyranny 
From  the  straight  path  of  duty  turn  aside ; 
But  who  in  public  troubles,  in  the  wreck 
Of  his  own  fortunes,  in  proscription,  exile, 
Want,  obloquy,  ingratitude,  neglect. 
And  what  severer  trials  Providence 
Sometimes  infiictcth,  chastening  wliom  it  loves, 
In  all,  through  all,  and  over  all,  hath  borne 
An  equal  heart,  as  resolute  toward 
The  world  as  humbly  and  religiously 
Beneath  his  heavenly  Father's  rod  resigrred. 
Kight-minded,  ha])]iy-minded,  righteous  man, 
True  lover  of  his  country  and  his  kind  ; 
In  knowledge  and  in  incxhaustive  stores 
Of  native  genius  rich  ;  philosopher, 


330  SOUTH EY. 


Poet,  and  sage.     The  language  of  a  slate 

Inferior  in  illustrious  deeds  to  none, 

But  circumscribed  by  narrow  bounds,  and  now 

Sinking  in  irrecoverable  decline, 

Hath  pent  within  its  sphere  a  name  wherewith 

Europe  should  else  have  rung  from  side  to  side. 

Such,  Allan,  is  the  Hollander  to  whom 
Esteem  and  admiration  have  attached 
My  soul,  not  less  than  pre- consent  of  mind, 
And  gratitude  for  benefits,  when,  being 
A  stranger,  sick,  and  in  a  foreign  land. 
He  took  me  like  a  brother  tO  his  house, 
And  ministered  to  me,  and  made  a  time 
Which  had  been  wearisome  and  careful  else 
So  pleasurable  that  in  my  kalendar 
There  are  no  whiter  days.     'Twill  be  a  joy 
Eor  us  to  meet  in  heaven,  though  we  should  look 
Upon  each  other's  earthly  face  no  more. 
—This  is  this  world's  complexion  !  "  cheerful  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind,"  and  these  again 
Give  place  to  calm  content,  and  steadfast  hope, 
And  happy  faith  assured. — Return  we  now, 
With  such  transition  as  our  daily  life 
Imposes  in  its  wholesome  discipline. 
To  a  lighter  strain  ;   and,  from  the  gallery 
Of  the  Dutch  poet's  mis-resemblances, 
Pass  into  mine  ;   where  I  shall  show  thee,  Allan, 
Such  an  array  of  villainous  visages 
That,  if  among  them  all  there  were  but  one 
Which  as  a  likeness  could  be  proved  upon  me, 
It  were  enough  to  make  me  in  mere  shame 
Take  up  an  alias,  and  forswear  myself. 

Whom  have  we  first  ?  A  dainty  gentleman, 
His  sleepy  eyes  half-closed,  and  countenance 
To  no  expression  stronger  than  might  suit 
A  simper  capable  of  being  moved  : 
Sawney  and  sentimental  ;  with  an  air 
So  lack-thought  and  so  lackadaisical 
You  might  suppose  the  volume  in  his  hand 
Must  needs  be  Zimmermann  on  Solitude. 

Then  comes  a  jovial  landlord,  who  hath  made  it 
Part  of  his  trade  to  be  the  shoeing-horn 
For  his  commercial  customers.     Good  Bacchus 
Hath  not  a  thirstier  votary.     Many  a  pipe 
Of  Porto's  vintage  hath  contributed 
To  give  his  cheeks  that  deep  carmine  engrained, 
And  many  a  runlet  of  right  Nantes,  I  ween, 


SOUTHEY. 


Hath  suffered  percolation  through  that  trunk, 

Leaving  behind  it  in  the  boozy  eyes 

A  swoln  and  red  suffusion,  glazed  and  dim. 

Our  next  is  in  the  evangelical  line, 
A  leaden -visaged  specimen  ;  demure, 
Because  he  hath  put  on  his  Sunday's  face  ; 
Dull  by  formation,  by  complexion  sad, 
By  bile,  opinions,  and  dyspepsy,  sour. 
One  of  the  sons  of  Jack, — I  know  not  which. 
For  Jack  hath  a  most  numerous  progeny, — 
Made  up  for  Mr.  Colburn's  Magazine, 
This  pleasant  composite  ;  a  bust  supplied 
The  features  ;  look,  expression,  character, 
Are  of  the  artist's  fancy  and  free  grace. 
Such  was  that  fellow's  birth  and  parentage. 
The  rascal  proved  prolific  ;  one  of  his  breed, 
By  Docteur  Pichot  introduced  in  France, 
Passes  for  Monsieur  Soote  ;  and  another — 
An  uglier  miscreant  too — the  brothers  Schumann, 
And  their  most  cruel  copper-scratcher  Zschoch, 
From  Zwickau  sent  abroad  through  Germany, 
1  wish  the  Schumen  and  the  copper-scratcher 
No  worse  misfortune  for  their  recompence 
Than  to  encounter  such  a  cut-throat  face 
In  the  Black  Forest  or  the  Odenwald. 

And  now  is  there  a  third  derivative 
From  Mr.  Colburn's  composite,  which  late 
The  Arch-Pirate  Galignani  hath  prefixed, 
A  spurious  portrait  to  a  faithless  life. 
And  bearing  lyingly  the  libelled  name 
Of  Lawrence,  impudently  there  insculpt. 

The  bust  that  was  the  innocent  foi'efather 
To  all  this  base  abominable  brood 
I  blame  not,  Allan.     'Twas  the  work  of  Smilh, 
A.  modest,  mild,  ingenious  man  ;  and  errs, 
Where  erring,  only  because  over-true. 
Too  close  a  likeness  for  similitude  ; 
Fixing  to  every  part  and  lineament 
Its  separate  character,  and  missing  thus 
That  which  results  from  all. 

Sir  Smug  comes  next ; 
Allan,  I  own  Sir  Smug  !  I  recognise 
That  visage  with  its  dull  sobriety. 
I  see  it  duly  as  the  day  returns. 
When  at  the  looking-glass  with  lathered  chin 
And  razor-weaponed  hand  I  sit,  the  face 
Composed  and  apprehensively  intent 


322  SOUTHEY. 


Upon  the  necessary  operation 
About  to  be  performed,  with  touch,  alas. 
Not  always  confident  of  hair-breadth  skill. 
Even  in  such  sober  sadness,  and  constrained- 
Composure  cold,  the  faithful  Painter's  eye 
Had  fixed  me  like  a  spell,  and  I  could  feel 
My  features  stiffen  as  he  glanced  upon  them. 
And  yet  he  was  a  man  whom  I  loved  dearly, 
I\Iy  fellow-traveller,  my  familiar  friend, 
Lly  household  guest.     But,  when  he  looked  upon  m^ 
Anxious  to  exercise  his  excellent  art. 
The  countenance  he  knew  so  thoroughly 
Was  gone,  and  in  its  stead  there  sate  Sir  Smug. 

Under  the  graver's  hand,  Sir  Smug  became 
Sir  Smouch, — a  son  of  Abraham.     Now  albeit 
Far  rather  would  I  trace  my  lineage  thence 
Than  with  the  oldest  line  of  Peers  or  Kings 
Claim  consanguinity,  that  cast  of  features 
Would  ill  accord  with  me,  who,  in  all  forms 
Of  pork  (baked,  roasted,  toasted,  boiled,  or  broiled, 
Fresh,  salted,  pickled,  seasoned,  moist  or  dry. 
Whether  ham,  bacon,  sausage,  souse,  or  brawn, 
Leg,  bladebone,  baldrib,  griskin,  chine,  or  chop}, 
Profess  myself  a  genuine  Philopig. 

It  was,  however,  as  a  Jew  whose  portion 
Had  fallen  unto  him  in  a  goodly  land 
Of  loans,  of  omnium,  and  of  three  per  cents, 
That  Messrs.  Percy  of  the  Anecdote-firm 
Presented  me  unto  their  customers. 
Poor  Smouch  endured  a  worse  judaization 
Under  another  hand.     In  this  next  stage 
He  is  on  trial  at  the  Old  Bailey,  charged 
With  dealing  in  base  coin.     That  he  is  guilty 
No  Judge  or  Jury  could  have  half  a  doubt 
When  they  saw  the  culprit's  face  ;  and  he  himself, 
As  you  may  plainly  see,  is  comforted 
By  thinking  he  has  just  contrived  to  keep 
Out  of  rope's  reach,  and  will  come  off  this  time 
For  transportation. 

Stand  thou  forth  for  trial, 
Now,  William  Darton,  of  the  Society 
Of  Friends  called  Quakers  ;  thou  who  in  4th  month 
Of  the  year  24,  on  Holborn  Hill,] 
At  No.  58,  didst  wilfully. 
Falsely,  and  knowing  it  was  falsely  done. 
Publish  upon  a  card,  as  Robert  Southey's, 
A  face  which  might  be  just  as  like  Tom  Fool's, 
Or  John  or  Richard  Any-body-else's  ! 


SOUTHEY.  323 


What  had  I  done  to  thee,  thou  William  Darton, 
That  thou  shouklst  for  the  lucre  of  base  gain, 
Yea,  for  the  sake  of  filthy  fourpences, 
Palm  on  my  countrymen  that  face  for  mine  ? 

0  William  Darton,  let  the  Yearly  Meeting- 
Deal  with  thee  for  that  falseness  !     All  the  rest 
Are  traceable  ;  Smug's  Hebrew  family  ; 

The  German  who  might  properly  adorn 
A  gibbet  or  a  wheel,  and  Monsieur  Soote, 
Sons  of  Fitzbust  the  Evangelical ; — 

1  recognize  all  these  unlikenesses. 
Spurious  abominations  though  they  be, 
Each  filiated  on  some  original  ; 

But  thou.  Friend  Darton  (and  observe  me,  man, 

Only  in  courtesy,   and  quasi  Quaker, 

I  call  thee  Friend)  hadst  no  original ; 

No  likeness  or  unlikeness,  silhoiidie. 

Outline,  or  plaster,  representing  me, 

Whereon  to  form  thy  misrepresentation. 

If  I  guess  rightly  at  the  pedigree 

Of  tliy  bad  groatsworth,  thou  didst  get  a  barber 

To  personate  my  injured  Laureateship  ; 

An  advertising  barber, — one  who  keeps 

A  bear,  and,  when  he  puts  to  death  poor  Bruin, 

Sells  his  grease,  fresh  as  from  the  carcass  cut. 

Pro  bono  publico,  the  price  per  pound 

Twelve  shillings  and  no  more.     From  such  a  barber, 

0  unfriend  Darton  !  was  that  portrait  made, 

1  think,  or  peradventure  from  his  block. 

Next  comes  a  minion  worthy  to  be  set 
In  a  wooden  frame  ;  and  here  I  might  invoke 
Avenging  Nemesis,  if  I  did  not  feel 
Just  now  God  Cynthius  pluck  me  by  the  ear. 
But,  Allan,  in  what  shape  God  Cynthius  comes, 
And  wherefore  he  admonisheth  me  thus. 
Nor  thou  nor  I  will  tell  the  world  ;  hereafter 
The  commentators,  my  Malones  and  Reids, 
May  if  they  can.     For  in  my  gallery 
Though  there  remaineth  undescribcd  good  store, 
Yet  "  of  enough  enough,  and  now  no  more" 
(As  honest  old  George  Gascoigne  said  of  yore) ; 
Save  only  a  last  couplet  to  express 
That  I  am  always  truly  yours, 

R.  S. 
Keswick,  Aji^ust  1828. 


324  SOUTH EY, 


THE  PIOUS  PAINTER. 

The  legend  of  the  Pious  Painter  is  related  in  the  Pia  Hilaria  of  Gazasus  ; 
but  the  Pious  Poet  has  omitted  the  second  part  of  the  story,  though  it  rests 
upon  quite  as  good  authority  as  the  first.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  Fabliaux  of 
Le  Grand. 

THE  FIRST  PART. 

There  once  was  a  painter  in  Catholic  days, 

Like  Job  who  eschewed  all  evil. 
Still  on  his  Madonnas  the  curious  may  gaze 
With  applause  and  with  pleasure:  but  chiefly  his 
praise 

And  delight  was  in  painting  the  Devil. 

They  were  Angels,  compared  to  the  devils  he  drew, 

Who  besieged  poor  St.  Anthony's  cell ; 
Such  burning  hot  eyes,  such  a  furnace-like  hue  ! 
And  round  them  a  sulphurous  colouring  he  threw, 

That  their  breath  seemed  of  brimstone  to  smell. 

And  now  had  the  artist  a  picture  begun ; 

'Tvvas  over  the  Virgin's  church-door  ; 
She  stood  on  the  Dragon  embracing  her  Son. 
Many  Devils  already  the  artist  had  done, 

But  this  must  out-do  all  before. 

The  Old  Dragon's  imps,  as  they  fled  through  the  air, 

At  seeing  it  paused  on  the  wing ; 
For  he  had  the  likeness  so  just  to  a  hair 
That  they  came,  as  Apollyon  himself  had  been  there, 

To  pay  their  respects  to  their  King. 

Every  child  at  beholding  it  trembled  with  dread, 

And  screamed  as  he  turned  away  quick. 
Not  an  old  woman  saw  it  but,  raising  her  head. 
Dropped  a  bead,  made  a  cross  on  her  wrinkles,  and  said, 

"  Lord  keep  me  from  ugly  Old  Nick!  " 

What  the  Painter  so  earnestly  thought  on  by  day 

He  sometimes  would  dream  of  by  night. 
But  once  he  was  startled  as  sleeping  he  lay  ; 
'Twas  no  fancy,  no  dream,  he  could  plainly  survey 

That  the  Devil  himself  was  in  sight. 

"  You  rascally  dauber  !"  old  Beelzebub  cries, 

"  Take  heed  how  you  wrong  me  again  ! 
Though  your  caricatures  for  myself  I  despise, 
Make  me  handsomer  now  in  the  multitude's  eyes, 

Or  see  if  I  threaten  in  vahi !" 


SOUTHEY.  325 


Now  the  Painter  was  bold,  and  religious  beside, 

And  on  faith  he  had  certain  reliance  ; 
So  carefully  he  the  grim  countenance  eyed, 
And  thanked  him  for  sitting,  with  Catholic  pride, 

And  sturdily  bade  him  defiance. 

Betimes  in  the  morning  the  Painter  arose  ; 

He  is  ready  as  soon  as  'tis  light. 
Every  look,  every  line,  every  feature,  he  knows  ; 
'Tis  fresh  in  his  eye  ;  to  his  labour  he  goes, 

And  he  has  the  old  Wicked  One  quite. 

Happy  man!  he  is  sure  the  resemblance  can't  fail ;" 

The  tip  of  the  nose  is  like  fire. 
There's  his  grin  and  his  fangs,  and  his  dragon-like  mail, 
And  the  very  identical  curl  of  his  tail, — 

So  that  nothing  is  left  to  desire. 

He  looks  and  retouches  again  with  delight ; 

'Tis  a  portrait  complete  to  his  mind  ; 
And,  exulting  again  and  again  at  the  sight, 
He  looks  round  for  applause, — and  he  sees  with  affright 

The  Original  standing  behind. 

"  Fool !  Idiot  !"  old  Beelzebub  grinned  as  he  spoke, 

And  stamped  on  the  scaffold  in  ire. 
The  Painter  grew  pale,  for  he  knew  it  no  joke  ; 
'Twas  a  terrible  height,  and  the  scaffolding  broke, — 

The  Devil  could  wish  it  no  higher. 

"  Help — help !  Blessed  Mary  ! "  he  cried  in  alarm, 

As  the  scaffold  sunk  under  his  feet. 
From  the  canvas  the  Virgin  extended  her  ai'm  ; 
She  caught  the  good  Painter,  she  saved  him  from  harm  ; 

There  were  hundreds  who  saw  in  the  street. 

The  Old  Dragon  fled  when  the  wonder  he  spied, 

And  cursed  his  own  fruitless  endeavour; 
While  the  Painter  called  after,  his  rage  to  deride, 
Shook  his  pallet  and  brushes  in  triumph,  and  cried, 

"I'll  paint  thee  more  ugly  than  ever  !" 


THE  SECOND  PART. 

The  Painter  so  pious  all  praise  had  acquired 

For  defying  the  malice  of  Hell  ; 
The  Monks  the  unerring  resemblance  admired  ; 
Not  a  Lady  lived  near  but  her  portrait  desired 

From  a  hand  that  succeeded  so  well. 


326  SOUTIIEY. 


One  there  was  to  be  painted  the  number  among, 

Of  features  most  fair  to  behold  ; 
The  country  around  of  fair  Marguerite  nmg  ; 
Marguerite  she  was  lovely  and  lively  and  young, 

Her  husband  was  ugly  and  old. 

O  Painter,  avoid  her  !  O  Painter,  take  care, 

For  Satan  is  watchful  for  you  ! 
Take  heed  lest  you  fall  in  the  Wicked  One's  snare ; 
The  net  is  made  ready,  O  Painter,  beware 

Of  Satan  and  Marguerite  too  ! 

She  seats  herself  now,  now  she  lifts  up  her  head, 

On  the  artist  she  fixes  her  eyes  ; 
The  coloui's  are  ready,  the  canvas  is  spread, 
He  lays  on  the  white,  and  he  lays  on  the  red, 

And  the  features  of  beauty  arise. 

He  is  come  to  her  eyes,  eyes  so  bright  and  so  blue  ! 

There's  a  look  ^yhich  he  cannot  express  ; — 
His  colours  are  dull  to  their  quick-sparkling  hue  ; 
More  and  more  on  the  lady  he  fixes  his  view, 

On  the  canvas  he  looks  less  and  less. 

In  vam  he  retouches,  her  eyes  sparkle  more, 

And  that  look  which  fair  Marguerite  gave  ! 
Many  Devils  the  Artist  had  painted  of  yore, 
But  he  never  had  tried  a  live  Angel  before, 
St.  Anthony  help  him  and  save  ! 

He  yielded,  alas  !  for  the  truth  must  be  told, 

To  the  Woman,  the  Tempter,  and  Fate. 
It  was  settled  the  Lady,  so  fair  to  behold. 
Should  elope  from  her  Husband  so  ugly  and  old, 
With  the  Painter  so  pious  of  late. 

Now  Satan  exults  in  his  vengeance  complete ; 

To  the  Husband  he  makes  the  scheme  known. 
Night  comes,  and  the  lovers  impatiently  meet ; 
Together  they  fly,  they  are  seized  in  the  street, 

And  in  prison  the  Painter  is  thrown. 

With  Repentance,  his  only  companion,  he  lies. 

And  a  dismal  companion  is  she  ! 
On  a  sudden  he  saw  the  Old  Enemy  rise  ; 
"Now,  you  villainous  dauber  !"  Sir  Beelzebub  cries, 

"  You  are  paid  for  your  insults  to  me  ! 

"  But  my  tender  heart  you  may  easily  move 

If  to  what  I  propose  you  agree ; 
That  picture, — be  just  !  the  resemblance  improve  ; 
Make  a  handsomer  portrait  ;  your  chains  I'll  remove, 

And  you  shall  this  instant  be  free." 


sou  THEY. 


Overjoyed,  the  conditions  so  easy  he  hears  ; 

"I'll  make  you  quite  handsome  !"  he  said. 
He  said,  and  his  chain  on  the  Devil  appears  ; 
Released  from  his  prison,  released  from  his  fears, 

The  Painter  is  snug  in  his  bed. 

At  morn  he  arises,  composes  his  look, 

And  proceeds  to  his  work  as  before. 
The  people  beheld  him,  the  culprit  they  took  ; 
They  thought  that  the  Painter  his  prison  had  Ijroke, 

And  to  prison  they  led  him  once  more. 

They  open  the  dungeon  ; — behold  in  his  place 

In  the  corner  old  Beelzebub  lay  ; 
He  smirks  and  he  smiles  and  he  leers  with  a  grace, 
That  the  Painter  might  catch  all  the  charms  of  his  face, 

Then  vanished  in  lightning  away. 

Quoth  the  Painter  ;  "I  trust  you'll  suspect  me  no  more, 

Since  you  find  my  assertions  were  true. 
But  I'll  alter  the  picture  above  the  Church-door, 
For  he  never  vouchsafed  me  a  sitting  before, 

And  I  must  give  the  Devil  his  due." 


ST.  ROMUALD. 

One  day,  it  matters  not  to  know 

How  many  hundred  years  ago, 

A  Frenchman  stopped  at  an  inn  door: 

The  Landlord  came  to  welcome  him,  and  cha 
Of  this  and  that, 

For  he  had  seen  the  Traveller  there  before. 

"Doth  holy  Romuald  dwell 
Still  in  his  cell?" 
The  Traveller  asked  ;  "or  is  the  old  man  dead?" 
"No;  he  has  left  his  loving  flock,  and  we 
So  great  a  Christian  never  more  shall  see," 
The  Landlord  answered,  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"Ah,  Sir  !  we  knew  his  worth  ! 
If  ever  there  did  live  a  saint  on  earth ! — 
Why,  Sir,  he  always  used  to  wear  a  sliiit 
For  thirty  days,  all  seasons,  day  and  night  j 
Good  man,  he  knew  it  was  not  right 
For  Dust  and  Ashes  to  fall  out  with  Dirt ! 
And  then  he  only  hung  it  out  in  the  rain, 
And  put  it  on  again. 


328  SOUTHEY. 


"  Tliere  has  been  perilous  work 
With  him  and  the  Devil  there  in  yonder  cell  ; 
For  Satan  used  to  maul  him  like  a  Turk. 

There  they  would  sometimes  fight 

All  through  a  winter's  night, 

From  sunset  until  morn, — 
He  with  a  cross,  the  Devil  with  his  horn ; 
The  Devil  spitting  fire  with  might  and  main 
Enough  to  make  St.  Michael  half  afraid  : 
He  splashing  holy  water  till  he  made 

His  red  hide  hiss  again. 
And  the  hot  vapour  filled  the  smoking  cell. 
This  was  so  common  that  his  face  became 
All  black  and  yellow  with  the  brimstone  flame, — 
And  then  he  smelt,— O  Lord!  how  he  did  smell ! 

"Then,  Sir  !  to  see  how  he  would  mortify 
The  flesh  !     If  any  one  had  dainty  fare, 
Good  man,  he  would  come  there. 
And  look  at  all  the  delicate  things,  and  cry, 

'  O  Belly,  Belly, 
You  would  be  gormandizing  now,  I  know; 

But  it  shall  not  be  so  ! — 
Home  to  your  bread  and  water — home,  I  tell  ye  !'" 

"But,"  quoth  the  Traveller,  "  wherefore  did  he  leave 
A  flock  that  knew  his  saintly  worth  so  well  ?" 
"  Why,"  said  the  Landlord,  "  Sir,  it  so  befell 

He  heard  unluckily  of  our  intent 
To  do  him  a  great  honour :  and,  you  know. 
He  was  not  covetous  of  fame  below. 
And  so  by  stealth  one  night  away  he  went." 

"  What  might  this  honour  be?"  the  Traveller  cried. 

"  Why,  Sir,"  the  Host  replied, 
"  We  thought  perhaps  that  he  might  one  day  leave  us; 

And  then,  should  strangers  have 
The  good  man's  grave, 
A  loss  like  that  would  naturally  grieve  us, 
For  he'll  be  made  a  Saint  of,  to  be  sure. 
Therefore  we  thought  it  prudent  to  secure 

His  relics  while  we  might  ; 
And  so  we  meant  to  strangle  him  one  night." 


LAMB.  329 

CHARLES  LAMB. 
[Born  in  London,  18  February'  1775  ;  died  at  Edmonton,  27  December  1834.] 
A  FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 
May  the  Babylonish  curse 
Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse 
If  I  can  a  passage  see 
In  this  word -perplexity, 
Or  a  fit  expression  find, 
Or  a  language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 
To  take  leave  of  thee,  Great  Plant ! 
Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate  : 
For  I  hate  yet  love  thee  so 
That,  whichever  thing  I  show. 
The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrained  hyperbole. 
And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine  ; 
Sorcerer  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion. 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake. 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women  :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much,  too,  in  the  female  way, 
While  thou  suck'st  the  labouring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 
And  ill  fortune  that  would  thwart  us 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us  ; 
While  each  man,  through  thy  heightening  steam, 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem. 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 
Monsters  that  who  see  us  fear  us  ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 


330  LAMB. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deity  can  do, 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 
Some  few  vapours  thou  mayst  raise 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born. 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant :  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art  ; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart. 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sovereign  to  the  brain  ; 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant  ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking'st  of  the  stinking  kind, 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison. 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite 

Nay,  rather. 
Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  ; 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you  ! 
'Twas  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee  ; 
None  e'er  prospered  who  defamed  thee. 
Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse. 
Such  as  perplexed  lovers  use 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 


LAMB.  331 


Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike. 
They  borrow  language  of  dislilvc  ; 
And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  JBIiss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that's  evil. 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 
Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more  ; 
Friendly  Traitress,  loving  Foe  ; — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 
But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express 
Borders  so  upon  excess 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 
Or  as  men  constrained  to  part 
With  what's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow's  at  the  height, 
Lose  discrimination  quite. 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall. 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall. 
On  the  darling  thing  whatever 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever. 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  ihec. 
For  thy  sake.  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But,  as  she  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  title  of  her  state, 
Thougli  a  widow  or  divorced. 
So  I,  from  tliy  converse  forced, 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain  ; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys. 
Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 
Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favours,  I  may  catcli 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 


332  JAMES  SMITH. . 


Sidelong  odours,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbour's  wife 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces, 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 
An  unconquered  Canaanite. 


JAMES  SMITH. 

[Born  in  1775,  son  of  the  solicitor  to  the  Board  of  Ordnance  ;  died  on  24th  De- 
cember 1839.  Smith,  who  succeeded  to  his  father's  legal  business,  was  a  highly- 
genial  and  estimable  specimen  of  the  man  about  town— witty,  pleasant,  and 
kind-hearted.  He  wrote  very  generally  in  conjunction  with  his  younger 
brother  Horace:  thus  was  produced  Horace  in  London,  and  afterwards  (1812) 
the  more  famous  Rejected  Addresses,  from  which  our  extracts  are  taken.  He 
was  a  great  sufferer  from  gout  in  his  later  years. — The  reader  should  understand 
(if  indeed  any  explanation  is  needed  on  the  point)  that,  Drury  Lane  Theatre  hav- 
ing been  burned  down,  the  Directors  offered  a  premium  for  the  best  poetical 
address  to  be  spoken  at  the  opening  of  the  re-edified  structure  :  the  Smiths 
seized  hold  of  this  idea,  concocted  addresses  in  the  several  styles,  not  a  little  bur- 
lesqued, of  various  leading  writers  of  the  day  ;  and  published  the  collection 
under  the  name  of  Rejected  Addresses,  to  the  huge  amusement  of  the  public]. 

THE    BABY'S   DEBUT. 

BY  W.  WORDSWORTH. 

Spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  a  girl  eight  years  of  age,  who  is  drawn 
upon  the  stage  in  a  child's  chaise,  by  Samuel  Hughes,  her  uncle's  porter. 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  new-year's-day ; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me,  last  week,  a  doll  of  wax. 

And  brother  Jack  a  top. 

Jack's  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is, — 
He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his  ; 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes. 
Takes  out  the  doll,  and  oh  my  stars  ! 
He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  ! 

Quite  cross,  a  bit  of  string  I  beg, 
And  tie  it  to  his  peg-top's  peg. 

And  bang,  with  might  and  main. 
Its  head  against  the  parlour  door  : 
Off  flies  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor, 

And  breaks  a  window  pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite  :' 
Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right. 

A  pretty  thing,  forsooth  ! 
If  he's  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot. 
Half  my  doll's  nose,  and  I  am  not 

To  draw  his  peg-top's  tooth  ! 


JAMES  SMITH.  333 


Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break, 
And  cried,  "  O  naughty  Nancy  Lake, 

Thus  to  distress  your  aunt : 
No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day  ! " 
And  while  papa  said,  "  Pooh,  she  may  !" 

Mamma  said,  "  No,  she  shan't  !  " 

Well,  after  many  a  sad  reproach. 
They  got  into  a  hackney  coach, 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 
I  saw  them  go  :  one  horse  was  blind. 
The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind, 

Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet. 

The  chaise  in  which  poor  brother  Bill 
Used  to  be  dra\vn  to  Pentonville 

Stood  in  the  lumber-room  : 
I  wiped  the  dust  from  off  the  top, 
While  Molly  mopped  it  with  a  mop. 

And  brushed  it  with  a  broom. 

My  uncle's  porter,  Samuel  Hughes, 
Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes 

(I  always  talk  to  Sam)  : 
So  what  does  he  but  takes  and  drags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  flags. 

And  leaves  me  where  I  am  ? 

My  father's  walls  are  made  of  brick, 
But  not  so  tall,  and  not  so  thick. 

As  these  ;  and,  goodness  me  ! 
My  father's  beams  are  made  of  wood. 
But  never,  never  half  so  good  ^ 

As  these  that  now  I  see. 

What  a  large  floor  !  'tis  like  a  town  ! 
The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down. 

Won't  hide  it,  I'll  be  bound  ; 
And  there's  a  row  of  lamps  !  my  eye  ! 
How  they  do  blaze  !  I  wonder  why 

They  keep  them  on  the  ground. 

At  first  I  caught  hold  of  the  wing, 
And  kept  away  ;  but  Mr.  Thing- 
umbob, the  prompter  man. 
Gave  with  his  hand  my  chaise  a  shove, 
And  said,  "  Go  on,  my  i^retty  love, — 
Speak  to  'cm,  little  Nan. 

"  You've  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp- 
er, hold  your  chin  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 
And  then  you're  sure  to  take  : 


334  JAMES  SMITH. 


I've  known  the  day  when  brats  not  quite 
Thirteen  got  fifty  pounds  a  night ; 
Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake  ?  " 

But  while  I'm  speaking,  where's  papa? 
And  where's  my  aunt?  and  where's  mamma? 

Where's  Jack  ?     Oh  there  they  sit ! 
rhey  smile,  they  nod  ;  I'll  go  my  ways, 
And  order  round  poor  Billy's  chaise, 

To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I  go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show  ; 

So,  bidding  you  adieu, 
I  curtsey,  like  a  pretty  miss. 
And,  if  you'll  blow  to  me  a  kiss, 

I'll  blow  a  kiss  to  you. 

[Blcnvs  kiss,  and  exit. 


THE  THEATRE. 

BY  THE  REV.  GEORGE  CRABBE. 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six, 
Our  long  wax-candles,  with  short  cotton  wicks. 
Touched  by  the  lamplighter's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start ; 
To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery  pane 
Tinge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane, 
While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widened  pit. 
And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit. 

At  first,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice  and  ease, 
Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they  please  ; 
But,  when  the  multitude  contracts  the  span, 
And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they  can. 

Now  the  full  benches,  to  late  comers,  doom 
No  room  for  standing,  miscalled  standing-room. 

Hark  !  the  check-taker  moody  silence  breaks, 
And  bawling  "  Pit  full,"  gives  the  check  he  takes  ; 
Yet  onward  still  the  gathering  numbers  cram, 
Contending  crowders  shout  the  frequent  "  damn," 
And  all  is  bustle,  squeeze,  row,  jabbering,  and  jam. 

See  to  their  desks  Apollo's  sons  repair  ; 
Swift  rides  the  rosin  o'er  the  horse's  hair  ; 
In  unison  their  various  tones  to  tune 
Murmurs  the  hautboy,  growls  the  hoarse  bassoon; 


JAMES  SMITH.  335 


In  soft  vibration  sighs  the  whispering  kite, 

Tang  goes  the  harpischord,  too-too  the  flute, 

Brays  the  loud  trumpet,  squeaks  the  fiddle  sharp, 

Winds  the  French  horn,  and  twangs  the  tingling  harp  ; 

Till,  like  great  Jove,  the  leader,  figuring  in, 

Attunes  to  order  the  chaotic  din. 

•Now  all  seems  hushed — but  no,  one  fiddle  will 

Give,  half-ashamed,  a  tiny  flourish  still. 

Foiled  in  his  crash,   the  leader  of  the  clan 

Reproves  with  frowns  the  dilatory  man  ; 

Then  on  his  candlestick  thrice  taps  his  bow, 

Nods  a  new  signal,  and  away  they  go. 

Perchance  while  pit  and  gallery  cry  "Hats  off," 

And  awed  consumption  checks  his  chided  cough,    • 

Some  giggling  daughter  of  the  Queen  of  Love 

Drops,  reft  of  pin,  her  play-bill  from  above  ; 

Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap, 

Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  air,  the  printed  scrap  ; 

But,  wiser  far  than  he,  combustion  fears, 

And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers  ; 

Till  sinking  gradual,  with  repeated  twirl. 

It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler's  curl  ; 

Who  from  his  powdered  pate  the  intruder  strikes, 

And,  for  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the  spikes. 

Say,  why  these  Babel  strains  from  Babel  tongues  ? 
Who's  that  calls  "Silence"  with  such  leathern  lungs? 
He  who,  in  quest  of  quiet,  "silence"  hoots, 
Is  apt  to  make  the  hubbub  he  imputes. 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain  ! 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honour  from  Chick  Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort. 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Court ; 
From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain. 
Culls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane  ; 
The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark, 
The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk  ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door. 
With  pence  twice  five,  they  want  but  two-pence  more, — 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  two-pence  spares, 
And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery  stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  baulk. 
But  talk  their  minds, — we  wish  they'd  mind  their  talk  ; 
Big-worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live, 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  tlie  lie  they  give  ; 
Jews  from  St.  Mary  Axe,  for  jobs  so  wary 
That  for  old  clothes  they'd  even  axe  St.  Mary  ; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  Ihcir  pate, 


336  JAMES  SMITH. 


Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait, 

"Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 

With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  chance  can  joy  bestow, 
Where  scowling  fortune  seemed  to  threaten  woe. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dvvyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire  ; 
But,  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 
Emanuel  Jennings  polished  Stubbs's  shoes. 

Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a  corn-cutter,  a  safe  employ  ; 
In  Holywell  Street,  St.  Pancras,  he  was  bred 
(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said, 
Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby's  Head). 
He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  town, 
But  with  a  premium  he  could  not  come  down. 
Pat  was  the  urchin's  name,  a  red-haired  youth. 
Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle-grounds  than  truth. 

Silence,  ye  gods ! — to  keep  your  tongues  in  awe, 
The  Muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 

Pat  Jennings  m  the  upper  gallery  sat. 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat ; 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew, 
And  spurned  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?     Pay  at  the  gallery  door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost,  when  new,  but  four  ? 
Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait, 
And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight  ? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  MuUins  whispers,    "  Take  my  handkerchief." 
•'  Thank  you,"  cries  Pat,    "  but  one  won't  make  a  line." 
"  Take  mine,"  cried  Wilson  ;  and  cried.Stokes,  "Take  mine.' 
A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties. 
Where  Spitallields  with  real  India  vies. 
Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue. 
Starred,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue, 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 
George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand, 
Loops  the  last  kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band. 
Upsoars  the  prize  ;  the  youth,  with  joy  unfeigned, 
Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  wliat  he  regained, — 
While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a  low  bow,  and  touched  the  ransomed  hat. 


HORACE  SMITH.  337 


HORACE  SMITH. 

[Brother  of  the  preceding  ;  born  towards  1779,  died  on  12th  July  1849.  Was 
a  stockbroker  by  profession,  and  a  man  of  a  fine  loveable  nature,  truly  generous, 
Shelley  has  sketched  him  : 

"  Wit  and  sense. 
Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight, 
Are  all  combined  in  Horace  Smith." 
He  wrote  Brambletye  House,  and  some  other  novels]. 

LOYAL  EFFUSION.i 

BY  W.  T.  FITZGERALD. 

Hail,  gloriou.s  edifice,  stupendous  work  ! 
God  bless  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  York  ! 

Ye  Muses  !  by  whose  aid  I  cried  down  Fox, 
Grant  me  in  Drury-Lane  a  private  box, 
Where  I  may  loll,  cry  Bravo,  and  profess 
The  boundless  powers  of  England's  glorious  press  ; 
While  Afric's  sons  exclaim,  from  shore  to  shore, 
"  Quashee  ma  bqo  !  the  slave-trade  is  no  more  !" 

In  fair  Arabia  (happy  once,  now  stony, 
Since  ruined  by  that  arch  apostate,  Boney) 
A  phoenix  late  was  caught  :  the  Arab  host 
Long  pondered,  part  would  boil  it,  part  would  roast  : 
But  while  they  ponder,  up  the  pot-lid  flies  ; 
Fledged,  beaked,  and  clawed,  alive,  they  see  him  rise 
To  heaven,  and  caw  defiance  in  the  skies. 
So  Drury,  first  in  roasting  flames  consumed. 
Then  by  old  renters  to  hot  water  doomed. 
By  Wyatt's  trowel  patted,  plump  and  sleek. 
Soars  v/ithout  wings,  and  caws  without  a  beak. 
Gallia's  stern  despot  shall  in  vain  advance 
From  Paris,  the  metropolis  of  France  ; 
By  this  day  month  the  monster  shall  not  gain 
A  foot  of  land  in  Portugal  or  Spain. 
See  Wellington  in  Salamanca's  field 
Forces  his  favourite  general  to  yield, 

Breaks  through  his  lines,  and  leaves  his  boasted  Marmont 
Expiring  on  the  plain  without  his  arm  on  : 
Madrid  he  enters  at  the  cannon's  mouth. 
And  then  the  villages  still  further  south. 
Base  Buonaparte,  filled  with  deadly  ire, 
Sets,  one  by  one,  our  playhouses  on  fire. 
Some  years  ago  he  pounced  with  deadly  glee  on 
The  Opera  House,  then  burnt  down  the  Pantheon  ; 
Nay,  still  unsated,  in  a  coat  of  flames 

1  This  poem,  and  the  tliree  next  ensuing,  arc  from  the  Rrjccicd  AMresses! 
not  so  The  Jester  Coitdemued  to  Death, 

Y 


338  HORACE  SMITH. 


Next  at  Millbank  he  crossed  the  river  Thames  : 

Thy  hatch,  O  Halfpenny  !  passed  in  a  trice, 

Boiled  some  black  pitch,  and  burnt  down  Astley's  twice  ; 

Then  buzzing  on  through  tether  with  a  vile  hum, 

Turned  to  the  left  hand,  fronting  the  Asylum, 

And  burnt  the  Royal  Circus  in  a  hurry, — 

(Twas  called  the  Circus  then,  but  now  the  Surry.) 

Who  burnt  (confound  his  soul  !)  the  houses  twain 
Of  Covent  Garden  and  of  Drury-Lane  ? 
Who,  while  the  British  squadron  lay  off  Cork, 
(God  bless  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  York) 
With  a  foul  earthquake  ravaged  the  Caraccas, 
And  raised  the  price  of  dry  goods  and  tobaccos  ? 
Who  makes  the  quartern  loaf  and  Luddites  rise  ? 
Who  fills  the  butchers'  shops  with  large  bine  flies  ? 
Who  thought  in  flames  St.  James's  court  to  pinch? 
Who  burnt  the  wardrobe  of  poor  Lady  Finch? 
Why  he  who,  forging  for  this  isle  a  yoke, 
Reminds  me  of  a  line  I  lately  spoke, 
"The  tree  of  freedom  is  the  British  oak." 

Bless  every  man  possessed  of  aught  to  give  ; 
Long  may  Long  Tilney  Wellcsley  Long  Pole  live  ; 
God  bless  the  army,  bless  their  coats  of  scarlet, 
God  bless  the  navy,  bless  the  Princess  Charlotte, 
God  bless  the  guards,  though  worsted  Gallia  scoff, 
And  bless  their  pig-tails,  though  they're  now  cut  off ; 
And  oh,  in  Downing-Street  should  old  Nick  revel, 
England's  prime  minister,  then  bless  the  Devil ! 


A  TALE  OF  DRURY  LANE. 

BY  WALTER  SCOTT. 

To  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Kerable  in  a  suit  of  the  Black  Prince's  Armour,  bor- 
rowed from  the  Tower. 

Survey  this  shield  all  bossy  bright ; 
These  cuisses  twain  behold  ; 
Look  on  my  form  in  armour  dight 
Of  steel  inlaid  with  gold. 
My  knees  are  stiff  in  iron  buckles, 
Stiff  spikes  of  steel  protect  my  knuckles. 
These  once  belonged  to  Sable  Prince, 
Who  never  did  in  battle  wince  ; 
With  valour  tart  as  pungent  quince, 

He  slew  the  vaunting  Gaul. 
Rest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance, 
While  from  green  curtain  I  advance 
To  yon  foot-lights,  no  trivial  dance. 
And  tell  the  town  what  sad  mischance 

Did  Drury  Lane  befall. 


HORACE  SMITH.  339 


THE  NIGHT. 

On  fair  Augusta's  towers  and  trees 

Flitted  the  silent  midnight  breeze, 

Curling  the  foliage  as  it  passed, 

Which  from  the  moon-tipped  plumage  cast 

A  spangled  light  like  dancing  spray, 

Then  reassumed  its  still  array : 

When,  as  night's  lamp  unclouded  hung. 

And  down  its  full  effulgence  flung, 

It  shed  such  soft  and  balmy  power 

That  cot  and  castle,  hall  and  bower, 

And  spire  and  dome  and  turret-height, 

Appeared  to  slumber  in  the  light. 

From  Henry's  chapel,  Rufus'  hall. 

To  Savoy,  Temple,  and  St.  Paul, 

From  Knightsbridge,  Pancras,  Camden  Town, 

To  Redriff,  Shadwell,  Horselydown, 

No  voice  was  heard,  no  eye  unclosed, 

But  all  in  deepest  sleep  reposed. 

They  might  have  thought  who  gazed  around, 

Amid  a  silence  so  profound 

It  made  the  senses  thrill. 
That  'twas  no  place  inhabited, 
But  son-^e  vast  city  of  the  dead, 

AH  was  so  hushed  and  still. 

THE  BURNING. 

As  Chaos,  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 
Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 
Started  with  terror  and  surprise 
When  light  first  flashed  upon  her  eyes  ; 
So  London's  sons  in  night-cap  woke. 

In  bed-gown  woke  her  dames. 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke, 

"The  Playhouse  is  in  flames  !" 
And  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 

To  every  window-pane  ; 
Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport 

A  bright  ensanguined  drain. 
Meux's  new  brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  chai:)cl,  and  the  height 

Where  patent  shot  they  sell. 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray  with  Surgeons'  Ilall, 


340  HORACE  SMITH. 


The  ticket-porter's  house  of  call, 
Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 
And  Richardson's  Hotel. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide, 
Across  the  Thames's  gleaming  tide, 
To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne, 
And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn 
In  borrowed  lustre  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose  or  red  sweet-Wil-li-am. 

To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 

Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury's  mound 
As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise 

It  seemed  that  nations  did  conspire 

To  offer  to  the  god  of  fire 
Some  vast  stupendous  sacrifice  ! 
The  summoned  firemen  woke  at  call, 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all. 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snooze, 
Each  sought  his  ponderous  hobnailed  shoes  ; 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied. 
Plush  breeches  next,  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embraced; 
-Then  jacket  thick  of  red  or  blue. 
Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thundered  through  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  Inicket,  all  complete  ; 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 
Along  the  pavement  paced. 

And  one,  the  leader  of  the  band. 
From  Charing  Cross  along  the  Strand, 
I^ike  stag  by  beagles  hunted  hard, 
Ran  till  he  stopped  at  Vin'gar  Yard. 
The  burning  badge  his  shoulder  bore. 
The  belt  and  oil-skin  hat  he  wore, 
The  cane  he  had  his  men  to  bang, 
Showed  foreman  of  the  British  gang. 
His  name  was  Higginbottom.     Now 
'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  how 

The  others  came  in  view. 
The  Hand-in-Hand  the  race  begun, 
Then  came  the  Phoenix  and  the  Sun, 
The  Exchange,  where  old  insurers  run. 

The  Eagle,  where  the  new. 
With  lliese  came  Rumford,  Bumford,  Cole, 
Robins  from  Hockley  in  the  Hole, 
Lawson  and  Dawson,  cheek  by  jowl, 


HORACE  SMITH.  341 

Crump  from  St.  Giles's  Pound  : 
Whitford  and  Mitford  joined  the  train, 
Huggins  and  Muggins  from  Chick  Lane, 
And  Clutterbuck,  who  got  a  sprain 

Before  the  plug  was  found. 
Hobson  and  Jolison  did  not  sleep ; 
But  ah !  no  trophy  could  they  reap, 
For  both  were  in  the  donjon  keep 

Of  Bridevvell's  gloomy  mound  ! 

E'en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed, 
For  sadder  scene  was  ne'er  disclosed. 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show, 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow, 
And  blazing  rafters  downward  go, 
And  never  halloo  "heads  below  !" 

Nor  notice  give  at  all. 
The  firemen,  terrified,  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow, 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall. 
Back,  Robins,  bac    !   Crump,  stand  aloof! 
Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 
Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof, — 
For  lo  !  the  blazing  rocking  roof 

Down,  down  in  thunder  falls  ! 

An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke  ; 
And  o'er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 
Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud. 
Concealed  them  from  tlie  astonished  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  cleared  ; 
When  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  upreared. 
Gradual  a  moving  head  appeared, 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
'Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 
"A  Muggins  to  the  rescue,  ho  !" 

And  poured  the  hissing  tide  : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain, 
For  rallying  but  to  fall  again. 

He  tottered,  sunk,  and  died  ! 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 
To  succour  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save  ; 
But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Served  but  to  share  his  grave  ! 


342  HORACE  SMITH. 


ISIid  blazing  beams  arid  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

"Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench, 
Destroying  sight,  o'erwhelmed  him  quite, — 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved, 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved ; 
"Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps,— 
You,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps,— 
"Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 
A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  ! 
"What  are  they  feared  on?  fools !  'od  rot  'em  !' 
"Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 

THE  REVIVAL. 

Peace  to  his  soul  !    New  prospects  bloom. 
And  toil  rebuilds  what  fires  consume  ! 
"Eat  we  and  drink  we,"  be  our  ditty, 
"Joy  to  the  managing  committee." 
Eat  we  and  drink  we  ;  join  to  rum 
Roast  beef  and  pudding  of  the  plum. 
Forth  from  thy  nook,  John  Horner,  come> 
With  bread  of  ginger  brown  thy  thumb, 

For  this  is  Drury's  gay  day  : 
Roll,  roll  thy  hoop,  and  twirl  thy  tops. 
And  buy,  to  glad  thy  smiling  chops, 
Crisp  parliament  with  lollypops, 

And  fingers  of  the  lady. 

Didst  mark  how  toiled  the  busy  train 
From  morn  to  eve,  till  Drury  Lane 
Leaped  like  a  roebuck  from  the  plain  ?' 
Ropes  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  again, 

And  nimble  workmen  trod. 
To  realize  bold  Wyatt's  plan. 
Rushed  many  a  howling  Irishman ; 
Loud  clattered  many  a  porter-can. 
And  many  a  ragamuffin  clan. 

With  trowel  and  with  hod. 

Drury  revives  !  her  rounded  pate 
Is  blue,  is  heavenly  blue,  with  slate  ; 
She  "wings  the  midway  air"  elate, 

As  magpie,  crow,  or  chough  ; 
White  jmint  her  modish  visage  smears, 
Yellow  and  pointed  are  her  ears. 
No  pendent  portico  appears 
Dangling  beneath,  for  Whitbread's  shears 

Have  cut  the  bauble  olT. 


HORACE  SMITH.  343 

Yes,  she  exalts  her  stately  head ; 

And,  but  that  solid  bulk  outspread 

Opposed  you  on  your  onward  tread, 

And  posts  and  pillars  warranted 

That  all  was  true  that  Wyatt  said, 

You  might  have  deemed  her  walls  so  thick 

Were  not  composed  of  stone  or  brick, — 

But  all  a  phantom,  all  a  trick 

Of  brain  disturbed  and  fancy-sick, 

So  high  she  soars,  so  vast,  so  quick. 


DRURY'S    DIRGE. 

BY  LAURA  MATILDA. 

Balmy  Zephyrs  lightly  flitting, 
Shade  me  with  your  azure  wing  ; 

On  Parnassus'  summit  sitting, 
Aid  me,  Clio,  while  I  sing. 

Softly  slept  the  dome  of  Drury 

O'er  the  empyreal  crest. 
When  Alecto's  sister-fury 

Softly  slumbering  sunk  to  rest. 

Lo  !  from  Lemnos  limping  lamely, 
Lags  tlie  lowly  Lord  of  Fire ; 

Cytherea  yielding  tamely 

To  the  Cyclops  dark  and  dire. 

Clouds  of  amber,  dreams  of  gladness, 
Dulcet  joys  and  sports  of  youth. 

Soon  must  yield  to  haughty  sadness  ; 
Mercy  holds  the  veil  to  Truth. 

See,  Erostratus  the  second 
Fires  again  Diana's  fane  ; 

By  the  Fates  from  Orcus  beckoned, 
Clouds  envelop  Diury  Lane. 

Lurid  smoke  and  frank  suspicion 
Hand  in  hand  reluctant  dance  : 

While  the  God  fulfds  his  mission, 
Chivalry,  resign  thy  lance  ! 

Hark!  the  engines  blandly  thunder, 
Fleecy  clouds  dishevelled  lie. 

And  the  firemen,  mute  with  wonder, 
On  the  son  of  Saturn  cry. 


344  HORACE  SMITH. 


See  the  bird  of  Ammon  sailing 
Perches  on  the  engine's  peak, 

And,  the  Eagle  firemen  hailing, 

Soothes  them  with  its  bickering  beak. 

Juno  saw,  and,  mad  with  malice. 
Lost  the  prize  that  Paris  gave  ; 

Jealousy's  ensanguined  chalice 
Mantling  pours  the  orient  wave. 

Pan  beheld  Patroclus  dying, 

Nox  to  Niobe  was  turned  ; 
From  Bubiris  Bacchus  flying 

Saw  his  Semele  inurned. 

Thus  fell  Drury's  lofty  glory, 

Levelled  with  the  shuddering  stones  ; 
Mars,  with  tresses  black  and  gory. 

Drinks  the  dew  of  pearly  groans. 

Hark  !  what  soft  ^olian  numbers 
Gem  the  blushes  of  the  morn  ; 

Break,  Amphion,  break  your  slumbers, 
Nature's  ringlets  deck  the  thom. 

Ha  !  I  hear  the  strain  erratic 
Dindy  glance  from  pole  to  pole. 

Raptures  sweet  and  dreams  ecstatic 
Fire  my  everlasting  soul. 

Where  is  Cupid's  crimson  motion  ? 

Billowy  ecstacy  of  woe, 
Bear  me  straight,  meandering  ocean, 

'Where  the  stagnant  torrents  flow. 

Blood  in  every  vein  is  gushing. 
Vixen  vengeance  lulls  my  heart, 

See,  the  Gorgon  gang  is  rushing  ! 
Never,  never  let  us  part  ! 


AKCHITECTURAL  ATOMS. 

TRANSLATED  BY  DR.  B. 

To  be  recited  by  the  Translator's  Son. 

Away,  fond  dupes  !  who,  smit  with  sacred  lore, 
Mosaic  dreams  in  Genesis  explore. 
Dote  with  Copernicus,  or  darkling  stray 
With  Newton,  Ptolemy,  or  Tycho  Brahe  : 
To  you  I  sing  not,  for  I  sing  of  truth. 


HORACE  SMITH.  34S 


Primaeval  systems,  and  creation's  youth  ; 
Such  as  of  old,  with  magic  wisdom  fraught, 
Inspired  Lucretius  to  the  Latians  taught. 

I  sing  how  casual  bricks,  in  airy  climb, 
Encountered  casual  horse-hair,  casual  lime  ; 
How  rafters,  borne  through  wondering  clouds  elate. 
Kissed  in  their  slope  blue  elemental  slate, 
Clasped  solid  beams  in  chance-directed  fury, 
And  gave  to  birth  our  renovated  Drury. 

Thee,  son  of  Jove,  whose  sceptre  was  confessed 
Where  fair  /Eolia  springs  from  Tethys'  breast  : 
Thence  on  Olympus  'mid  Celestials  placed, 
God  of  the  Winds  and  Other's  boundless  waste, 
Thee  I  invoke  !     Oh  puff  my  bold  design, 
Prompt  the  bright  thought,  and  swell  the  harmonious 

line ; 
Uphold  my  pinions,  and  my  verse  inspire 
With  Winsor's  patent  gas,  or  wind  of  fire. 
In  whose  pure  blaze  thy  embryo  form  enrolled 
The  dark  enlightens,  and  enchafes  the  cold. 

But,  while  I  court  thy  gifts,  be  mine  to  shun 
The  deprecated  prize  Ulysses  won; 
Who,  sailing  homeward  from  thy  breezy  shore, 
The  prisoned  Winds  in  skins  of  parchment  bore. — 
Speeds  the  fleet  bark,  till  o'er  the  billowy  green 
The  azure  heights  of  Ithaca  are  seen  ; 
But,  while  with  favouring  gales  her  way  she  wins, 
His  curious  comrades  ope  the  mystic  skins  : 
When  lo  !  the  rescued  Winds,  with  boisterous  sweep, 
Roar  to  the  clouds,  and  lash  the  rocking  deep : 
Heaves  the  smote  vessel  in  the  howling  blast, 
Splits  the  stretched  sail,  and  cracks  the  tottering  mast. 
Launched  on  a  plank,  the  buoyant  hero  rides 
Where  ebon  Afric  stems  the  sable  tides. 
While  his  ducked  comrades  o'er  the  ocean  fly, 
And  sleep  not  in  the  whole  skins  they  untie. 

So,  when  to  raise  the  wind  some  lawyer  tries, 
Mysterious  skins  of  parchment  meet  our  eyes. 
On  speeds  the  smiling  suit ;  "  Pleas  of  our  Lord 
The  King"  shine  jetty  on  the  wide  record. 
Nods  the  pruncllaed  bar,  attorneys  smile, 
And  siren  jurors  flatter  to  beguile  ; 
Till  stripped — nonsuited— he  is  doomed  to  toss 
In  legal  sliipwrcck  and  rcdcemlcss  loss  ; 
Lucky  if,  like  Ulysses,  he  can  keep 
His  head  above  the  waters  of  the  deep. 


346  HORACE  SMITH. 


^oliau  monarch  !  Emperor  of  Pufifs  ! 
We  modern  sailors  dread  not  thy  rebuffs  ; 
See,  to  thy  golden  shore  promiscuous  come 
Quacks  for  the  lame,  the  blind,  the  deaf,  the  dumb ; 
Fools  are  their  bankers — a  prolific  line, 
And  every  mortal  malady's  a  mine. 
Each  sly  Sangrado,  with  his  poisonous  pill, 
Flies  to  the  printer's  devil  with  his  bill. 
Whose  Midas  touch  can  gild  his  ass's  ears, 
And  load  a  knave  with  folly's  rich  arrears. 
And  lo  !  a  second  miracle  is  thine. 
For  sloe-juiced  water  stands  transformed  to  wine. 
Where  Day  and  Martin's  patent  blacking  rolled, 
Burst  from  the  vase  Pactolian  streams  of  gold; 
Laugh  the  sly  wizards  glorying  in  their  stealth, 
Quit  the  black  art,  and  loll  in  lazy  wealth. 
See,  Britain's  Algerines,  the  Lottery  fry. 
Win  annual  tribute  by  the  annual  lie. 
Aided  by  thee.   .   .  .  But  whither  do  I  stray  ? 
Court,  city,  borough,  own  thy  sovereign  sway : 
An  age  of  puffs  the  age  of  gold  succeeds. 
And  windy  bubbles  are  the  spawn  it  breeds. 

If  such  thy  power.  Oh  hear  the  Muse's  prayer  ! 
Swell  thy  loud  lungs,  and  wave  thy  wings  of  air  ; 
Spread,  viewless  giant,  all  thy  arms  of  mist 
Like  windmill  sails  to  bring  the  poet  grist, 
As  erst  thy  roaring  son  with  eddying  gale 
Whirled  Orithyia  from  her  native  vale. 
So,  while  Lucretian  wonders  I  rehearse, 
Augusta's  sons  shall  patronize  my  verse. 

I  sing  of  Atoms,  whose  creative  brain. 
With  eddying  impulse,  built  new  Drury  Lane  ; 
Not  to  the  labours  of  subservient  man. 
To  no  young  Wyatt,  appertains  the  plan; 
We  mortals  stalk,  like  horses  in  a  mill. 
Impassive  media  of  Atomic  will. 
Ye  stare  !    Then  truth's  broad  talisman  discern— 
Tis  Demonstration  speaks.  —  Attend  and  learn  ! 

From  floating  elements  in  chaos  hurled, 
Self-formed  of  atoms,  sprang  the  infant  world. 
No  great  First  Cause  inspired  the  happy  plot, 
But  all  was  matter,  and  no  matter  what. 
Atoms,  attracted  by  some  law  occult. 
Settling  in  spheres,  the  globe  was  the  result ; 
Pure  child  of  Chance,  which  still  directs  the  ball, 
As  rotatory  atoms  rise  or  fall. 
In  rether  launched,  the  peopled  bubble  floats, 
A  mass  of  particles  and  confluent  motes  ; 


HORACE  SMITH.  347 


So  nicely  poised  that,  if  one  atom  flings 

Its  weight  away,  aloft  the  planet  springs, 

And  wings  its  course  through  realms  of  boundless  space, 

Outstripping  comets  in  eccentric  race. 

Add  but  one  atom  more,  it  sinks  outright 

Down  to  the  realms  of  Tartarus  and  night. 

What  waters  melt,  or  scorching  fires  consume, 

In  different  forms  their  being  reassume  ; 

Hence  can  no  change  arise,  except  in  name, 

For  weight  and  substance  ever  are  the  same. 

Thus,  with  the  flames  that  from  old  Drury  rise. 
Its  elements  primaeval  sought  the  skies  ; 
There  pendulous  to  wait  the  happy  hour 
When  new  attractions  should  restore  their  power. 
So,  in  this  procreant  theatre  elate, 
Echoes  unborn  their  future  life  await ; 
Here  embryo  sounds  in  rether  lie  concealed. 
Like  words  in  northern  atmosphere  congealed. 
Here  many  a  fcetus-laugh  and  half-encore  • 
Clings  to  the  roof,  or  creeps  along  the  floor. 
By  puffs  concipient,  some  in  aether  flit. 
And  soar  in  bravos  from  the  thundering  pit ; 
Some  forth  on  ticket-nights  from  tradesmen  break, 
To  mar  the  actor  they  design  to  make  ; 
While  some  this  mortal  life  abortive  miss, 
Crushed  by  a  groan,  or  strangled  by  a  hiss. 
So,  when  "  dog's-meat "  re-echoes  through  the  streets, 
Rush  sympathetic  dogs  from  their  retreats. 
Beam  with  bright  blaze  their  supplicating  eyes, 
Sink  their  hind-legs,  ascend  their  joyful  cries  ; 
Each,  wild  with  hope,  and  maddening  to  prevail,  _ 
Points  the  pleased  ear,  and  wags  the  expectant  tail. 

Ye  fallen  bricks,  in  Drury's  fire  calcined, — 
Since  doomed  to  slumber,  couched  upon  the  wind, — 
Sweet  was  the  hour  when,  tempted  by  your  freaks. 
Congenial  trowels  smoothed  your  yellow  cheeks. 
Float  dulcet  serenades  upon  the  ear. 
Bends  every  atom  from  its  ruddy  sphere, 
Twinkles  each  eye,  and,  peeping  from  its  veil, 
INIarks  in  the  adverse  crowd  its  destined  male. 
The  oblong  beauties  clap  their  hands  of  grit. 
And  brick-dust  titterings  on  the  breezes  flit ; 
Then  down  they  rush  in  amatory  race. 
Their  dusty  bridegrooms  eager  to  embrace. 
Some  choose  old  lovers,  some  decide  for  new  ; 
But  each,  when  fixed,  is  to  her  station  true. 
Thus  various  bricks  are  made  as  tastes  invite 
The  red,  the  grey,  the  dingy,  or  the  white. 


348  HORACE  SMITH. 


Perhaps  some  half-baked  rover,  frank  and  free, 
To  alien  beauty  bends  the  lawless  knee  ; 
But,  of  unhallowed  fascination  sick, 
Soon  quits  his  Cyprian  for  his  married  brick. 
The  Dido  atom  calls  and  scolds  in  vain  ; 
No  crisp  ^neas  soothes  the  widow's  pain. 

So  in  Cheapside,  what  time  Aurora  peeps, 
A  mingled  noise  of  dustmen,  milk,  and  sweeps, 
Falls  on  the  housemaid's  ear  ;  amazed  she  stands. 
Then  opes  the  door  with  cinder-sabled  liands. 
And  "matches"  calls.     The  dustman,  bubbled  flat. 
Thinks  'tis  for  him,  and  doffs  his  fan-tailed  hat  ; 
The  milkman,  whom  her  second  cries  assail. 
With  sudden  sink,  unyokes  the  clinking  pail. 
Now,  louder  grown,  by  turns  she  screams  and  weeps  ; 
Alas  !  her  screaming  only  brings  the  sweeps. 
Sweeps  but  put  out — she  wants  to  raise  a  flame, 
And  calls  for  matches,  but  'tis  still  the  same. 
Atoms  and  housemaids  !  mark  the  moral  true, — 
If  once  ye  go  astray,  no  match  for  you  ! 

As  atoms  in  one  mass  united  mix. 
So  bricks  attraction  feel  for  kindred  bricks. 
Some  in  the  cellar  view,  perchance,  on  high, 
Fair  chimney  chums  on  beds  of  mortar  lie  ; 
Enamoured  of  the  sympathetic  clod, 
Leaps  the  red  bridegroom  to  the  labourer's  hod, 
And  up  the  ladder  bears  the  workman,  taught 
To  think  he  bears  the  bricks — mistaken  thought ! 
A  proof  behold — if  near  the  top  they  find 
The  nymphs  or  broken-cornered  or  unkind, 
Back  to  the  bottom  leaping  with  a  bound, 
They  bear  their  bleeding  carriers  to  the  ground. 

So,  legends  tell,  along  the  lofty  hill 
Paced  the  twin  heroes,  gallant  Jack  and  Jill ; 
On  trudged  the  Gemini  to  reach  the  rail 
That  shields  the  well's  top  from  the  expectant  pail. 
When  ah  !  Jack  falls  ;  and,  rolling  in  the  rear, 
Jill  feels  the  attraction  of  his  kindred  sphere  ; 
Head  over  heels  begins  his  toppling  track, 
Throws  sympathetic  somersets  with  Jack, 
And  at  the  mountain's  base  bobs  plump  against  him, 
whack  ! 

Ye  living  atoms  who  unconscious  sit, 
Jumbled  by  chance  in  gallery,  box,  and  pit. 
For  you  no  Peter  opes  the  fabled  door, 
No  churlish  Charon  plies  the  shadowy  oar ; — 


HORACE  SMITH.  349 

Breathe  but  a  space,  and  Boreas'  casual  sweep 

Shall  bear  your  scattered  corses  o'er  the  deep, 

To  gorge  the  greedy  elements,  and  mix 

With  water,  marl  and  clay,  and  stones  and  sticks  ; 

While,  charged  with  fancied  souls,  sticks,  stones,  and  clay, 

Shall  take  your  seats,  and  hiss  or  clap  the  play. 

O  happy  age  when  convert  Christians  read 
No  sacred  writings  but  the  Pagan  creed  ! 
O  happy  age  when,  spurning  Newton's  dreams, 
Our  poet's  sons  recite  Lucretian  themes, 
Abjure  the  idle  systems  of  their  youth, 
And  turn  again  to  atoms  and  to  tnith  ! 
O  happier  still  when  England's  dauntless  dames, 
Awed  by  no  chaste  alarms,  no  latent  shames. 
The  bard's  fourth  book  unblushingly  peruse. 
And  learn  the  rampant  lessons  of  the  stews  ! 

All  hail,  Lucretius,  renovated  sage  ! 
Unfold  the  modest  mystics  of  thy  page  ; 
Return  no  more  to  thy  sepulchral  shelf. 
But  live,  kind  bard, — that  I  may  live  myself! 


THE  JESTER  CONDEMNED  TO  DEATH. 

One  of  the  Kings  of  Scandcroon 

A  Royal  Jester 
Had  in  his  train  ;  a  gross  bufifoon. 

Who  used  to  pester 
The  Court  with  tricks  inopportune. 
Venting  on  the  highest  folks  his 
Scurvy  pleasantries  and  hoaxes. 

It  needs  some  sense  to  play  the  fool, 

Which  wholesome  rule 
Occurred  not  to  our  jackanapes, 

Wlio  consequently  found  his  freaks 
Lead  to  innumerable  scrapes, 

And  quite  as  many  kicks  and  tweaks. 
Which  only  seemed  to  make  him  faster 
Try  the  patience  of  his  master. 

Some  sin,  at  last,  beyond  all  measure. 
Incurred  the  desperate  displeasure 

Of  his  serene  and  raging  Highness. 
Whether  he  twitched  his  most  revered 

And  sacred  beard. 
Or  had  intruded  on  the  shyness 
Of  the  Seraglio,  or  let  fly 


OD"- 


CKELL  Y. 


An  epigram  at  royalty, 
None  knows  : — his  sin  was  an  occult  one. 
But  records  tell  us  that  the  Sultan, 
Meaning  to  terrify  the  knave, 

Exclaimed — "  'Tis  time  to  stop  that  breath  ; 
Thy  doom  is  sealed  : — presumptuous  slave  ! 

Thou  stand'st  condemned  to  certain  death. 
Silence,  base  rebel  ! — no  replying  ! — 

But  such  is  my  indulgence  still 

That,  of  my  own  free  grace  and  will, 
I  leave  to  thee  the  mode  of  dying. " 

"  Thy  royal  will  be  done — 'tis  just," 
Replied  the  wretch,  and  kissed  the  dust. 

"  Since,  my  last  moments  to  assuage, 
Your  Majesty's  humane  decree 
Has  deigned  to  leave  the  choice  to  me, 

I'll  die,  so  please  you,  of  old  age  !  " 


PATRICK  O'KELLY. 

[The  earliest  trace  I  find  of  this  writer  is  the  publication,  in  1808,  of  his 
Poefns  on  the  Giant's  Caztseivay  and  KiUar7iey,  luith  other  Miscellanies.  He 
published  another  volume  of  verse  in  1824,  and  is  mentioned  as  having  met  Sir 
Walter  Scott  at  .Limerick  in  1825.  His  worldly  circumstances  mtist  then  have 
been  the  reverse  of  flourishing,  for  he  borrowed  five  shillings  of  the  Scottish 
poet.  He  was  "a  scarecrow  figure,"  and  seems  to  have  been  well  known  as  an 
eccentric  humourist,  naturally  amenable  to  banter]. 

THE  DONERAILE  LITANY. 

Alas  !  how  dismal  is  my  tale  ! — 
I  lost  my  watch  in  Doneraile  ; 
My  Dublin  watch,  my  chain  and  seal, 
Pilfered  at  once  in  Doneraile. 

May  fire  and  brimstone  never  fail 
To  fall  in  showers  on  Doneraile  ; 
May  all  the  leading  fiends  assail 
The  thieving  town  of  Doneraile. 

As  lightnings  flash  across  the  vale, 
So  down  to  hell  with  Doneraile  ; 
The  fate  of  Pompey  at  Pliarsale, 
Be  that  the  curse  of  Doneraile. 

May  beef  or  mutton,  lamb  or  veal, 
Be  never  found  in  Doneraile  ; 
But  garlic-soup  and  scurvy  kail 
Be  still  the  food  for  Doneraile. 

And  forward  as  the  creeping  snail 

The  industry  be  of  Doneraile  ; 

May  Heaven  a  cliosen  curse  entail 

On  rigid,  rotten  Doneraile.  * 


a  KELLY. 


May  sun  and  moon  for  ever  fail 
To  beam  their  lights  in  Doneraile  ; 
May  every  pestilential  gale 
Blast  that  curst  spot  called  Doneraile. 

May  rio  sweet  cuckoo,  thrush,  or  quail, 
Be  ever  heard  in  Doneraile  ; 
May  patriots,  kings,  and  commonweal, 
Despise  and  harass  Doneraile. 

May  every  Post,  Gazette,  and  Mail, 
Sad  tidings  bring  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  loudest  thunders  ring  a  peal 
To  blind  and  deafen  Doneraile. 

May  vengeance  fall  at  head  and  tail, 
From  north  to  south,  at  Doneraile  ; 
May  profit  light,  and  tardy  sale. 
Still  damp  the  trade  of  Doneraile. 

May  Fame  resound  a  dismal  tale 
Whene'er  she  lights  on  Doneraile  ; 
May  Egypt's  plagues  at  once  prevail, 
To  thin  the  knaves  of  Doneraile. 

May  frost  and  snow,  and  sleet  and  hail. 
Benumb  each  joint  in  Doneraile  ; 
May  wolves  and  bloodhounds  trace  and  trail 
The  cursed  crew  of  Doneraile. 

May  Oscar,  with  his  fiery  flail. 
To  atoms  thresh  all  Doneraile  ; 
JNIay  every  mischief,  fresh  and  stale,  . 
Abide  henceforth  in  Doneraile. 

May  all,  from  Belfast  to  Kinsale, 
Scoff,  curse,  and  damn  you,  Doneraile  ; 
May  neither  flour  nor  oatcnmeal 
Be  found  or  known  in  Doneraile. 

May  want  and  woe  each  joy  curtail 
That  e'er  was  known  in  Doneraile  ; 
May  no  one  coffin  want  a  nail 
That  wraps  a  rogue  in  Doneraile. 

May  all  the  thieves  that  rob  and  steal 
The  gallows  meet  in  Doneraile  ; 
May  all  the  sons  of  Granawcal 
Blush  at  the  thieves  of  Doneraile. 

May  mischief,  big  as  Norway  whale, 
O'erwhclm  the  knaves  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  curses,  wholesale  and  retail. 
Pour  with  full  force  on  Doneraile. 


352  DOBBIN. 


May  every  transport  wont  to  sail 
A  convict  luring  from  Doneraile  ; 
May  every  churn  and  milking-pail 
Fall  dry  to  staves  in  Doneraile. 

May  cold  and  hunger  still  congeal 
The  stagnant  blood  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  every  hour  new  woes  reveal 
That  hell  reserves  for  Doneraile. 

May  every  chosen  ill  prevail 
O'er  all  the  imps  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  no  one  wish  or  prayer  avail 
To  soothe  the  woes  of  Doneraile. 

May  the  Inquisition  straight  impale 
The  rapparees  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  Charon's  boat  triumphant  sail, 
Completely  manned,  from  Doneraile. 

Oh  may  my  couplets  never  fail 
To  find  a  curse  for  Doneraile  ; 
And  may  grim  Pluto's  inner  jail 
For  ever  groan  with  Doneraile  ! 


ORLANDO  THOMAS  DOBBIN, 

[The  Rev.  Dr.  Dobbin,  a  clergyman  of  the  Anglo-Irish  Church,  was  born  in 
the  County  of  Armagh  in  1807.  Along  with  various  original  writings,  he  has 
published,  with  a  translation,  Diodati's  De  C/iristo  Grcrce  loguenic,  and  the 
Codex  M o)it/ortia7ius\. 

MY  MANX  MINX. 

All  the  Bard's  rhymes,  and  all  his  inks, 
Will  scarce  pourtray  the  Proteus — MiN.v  ; 

Nor  artist  brush  with  brightest  tincts 
Of  Fancy's  rainbow  picture  Minx. 

The  child  of  Man  and  beast:  a  sphinx 
Of  noble  rearing  :  that  is  MiNX. 

With  paw  of  leopard,  eye  of  lynx, 
And  spring  of  tiger,  such  is  Minx. 

She's  playful,  harmless :  Mousie  thinks : 
But  dreadful  earnest's  artful  Minx. 

Seems  nonckalante,  and  bobs,  and  blinks: 
Ma/oi,  toHte  autre  chose  is  Minx. 


DOBBIN.  353 


Dorniitat  Homer  oft :  her  winks 

Are  rare:  no  "nid-nid-noddin" — Minx. 

Aye  "takkin  notes"  of  holes  and  chinks: 
A  slee  and  pawky  body's  Minx. 

An  Abbess  of  Misrule  :  she  slinks 
From  no  malfeasance:  wilful  MiNX. 

(Law  :) — Ne  quid  nitn.  of  neighbour'' s  (rinks: 
She's  always  nimming  :  roguish  Minx. 

With  reels  of  silk,  thread,  wool,  plays  rinks : 
Tossing  and  tangling:  tricksy  Minx. 

Loves  frisks,  curvets,  and  highest  jinks: 
Frolic's  own  daughter,  merry  Minx. 

As  high-born  dame  in  idlesse  sinks, 
So  idleih /a-nwnte  Minx. 

A  pert,  coquettish,  flirting  finks  : 
Has  fifty  beaux  at  once :  vain  Minx. 

On  window-sill,  in  sunshine,  prinks 
Her  dainty  paws  and  fur  :  neat  Minx. 

Simplex  jnund'itiis,  all  the  sminks 

And  smears  of  sluthood  shuns  spruce  Minx. 

Soprani  trill  their  tink-a-tinks  : 
y\.y  prima  cat-air  ice's  Minx. 

Horns  blare,  drums  beat,  and  cymbal  clinks : 
No  meti.'sic  equals  mews  of  Minx. 

His  richest  creams,  nectareous  drinks, 
Her  master  sets  aside  for  Minx. 

From  human  cares  and  snares  he  shrinks. 
To  spend  serener  hours  with  Minx. 

The  Dean's  rare  taste  in  his  precincts 
Pets  wild  ducks:   I  pet  wilder  MiNX. 

Of  the  Cat  world  the  pink  of  pinks 
Is  tailless,  T^&tx\&%s,  schonste  Minx. 

'Es  ael  twinned,  the  Bard  enlinks 
The  names  for  ever:  Otiio,i  Minx. 

1  O.  THO.  D. 


554  DOBBIN. 


A  DITHYRAMB  ON  CATS. 

Confound  the  Cats !     All  Cats — alway — 
Cats  of  all  colours,  black,  white,  grey ; 
By  night  a  nuisance  and  by  day — 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Confound  their  saucy-looking  whiskers  ! 
Confound  them  whether  staid  or  friskers ! 
Confound  their  midnight  squeally  discourse ! 
Confound  the  Cats! 

Confound  their  roof-ridge  caterwaulings — 
Their  spittings,  hissings,  skirlings,  squallings, 
And  their  still  more  lugubrious  miaulings — 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

Confound  all  Cats  !    Whate'er  the  fashion — 
Persian,  Manx,  Maltese,  or  Circassian, 
The  sleek  young  Kit,  or  skinny  passe  one — 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

Confound  the  Cats !     Yet  Egypt  loved  'em, 
With  balsams  and  with  unguents  stuffed  'em. 
And  then  within  Grand  Pyramids  shoved  'em- 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

Not  Puss  in  Boots,  of  fairy  scribe, 

Which  charmed  my  youth,  could  ever  bribe 

My  heart  to  love  that  claw-armed  tribe : 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Sly  Pussies  lap  their  milky  food, 
Seeming  a  harmless  playful  brood — 
Yet  nurse  a  tiger's  thirst  for  blood. 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

My  Tenny — that's  her  name— is  black, 
Soft,  shining,  furry  is  her  back  ; 
But  she  has  grififin's  claws,  alack ! 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Confound  the  blackamoorish  sinner  ! 
Of  waifs  and  strays  the  strenuous  winner, 
Purveying  "  small  deer"  for  her  dinner — 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

While  other  game  abound  in  plenties, 
And  young  soft  mice  are  caught  in  twenties, 
Song-birds  should  still  be  tabooed  dainties — 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

O  Tenny,  Tenny,  arch-deceiver ! 
Assassin,  Fenian,  filch  and  i-eiver  ! 
How  wilt,  when  tried,  thy  soul  deliver? 

Confound  the  Cats ! 


DOBBIN. 


555 


The  Judge's  charge— a  Robin's— read, 
Twelve  honest  Robms'  verdict  said, 
A  Robin  Ketch  will  hang  thee  dead, — 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Laid  in  unblest  abysmal  tomb, 
Resurgam  none — a  cat-acomb — 
Thou'lt  rot  in  Paris,  Memphis,  Rome- 
Confound  the  Cats  ! 

Would,  Richard  Whittington  !  you'd  ta'en 
Your  "turn  again"  through  my  domain. 
And  shipped  a  cargo  off  for  Spain  ! 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

'Twould  have  saved  Robin— cheeriest  fellow ! 
With  pipe  so  clear,  and  soul  so  mellow, 
Amongst  his  mates  a  regular  swell,  Oh 

Confound  the  Cats  1 

In  scarlet  vest  and  breeches  grey,     ~ 
He  looked  the  gentleman  so  gay — 
His  nut-brown  coat,  a  cut-away. 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Puss  eyed  him  plump  and  debonnair, — 
Compassion  cried  in  vain  "Oh  spare!" — 
And  trussed  his  gentle  carcase  tliere : 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Cat  venit,  vidit,  vicit  Rob, 

A  Caesarlike  and  summary  job, 

Without  one  quick  compunctious  throb. 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

Swooned  Queen  Robina  at  his  rape; 
While  her  Lord  Chamberlain  bade  drape 
All  Robindom  with  deepest  crape. 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

•'  Confound  the  Cats,"  she  cried  sob-sobbing, 
"  Who  took  their  hard  and  hungry  golj  in 
My  royal  spouse — my  peerless  Robin ! 

Ah  me,  sweet  Robin ! 

"  O  feline  and  felonious  breed  ! 

My  true  love's  red  breast— Ah  foul  deed  I—   ' 

I'o  cause  with  redder  red  to  bleed. 

Dear  murdered  Robin ! 

"  The  bagpipes  dione  fu'  sari  and  sairlie, 
Aye  liltin'  '  Wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ;' 
My  heart  responds,  Wae's  me  for  rarely 

Gifted  Prince  Robin ! 


356  DOBBIN. 


"  O  early  lost  and  long  adored  ! 
My  dhilka  tookra,  my  soul's  lord  ! 
Thy  virtues  how  shall  I  record, 

My  noble  Robin? 

"Victoria  builds  her  Alberteum, 
As  Caria's  Queen  her  Mausoleum; 
I'll  raise,  I  vow,  my  Robineum 

For  Consort  Robin ! 

*'  Ad  Vtduarwn  nexa  choream, 
Extrtiam,  in  major e7n  gloriam 
Jiobini,  propriam  In  Memortajn. 

O  loved— lost— Robin!' 

Her  grief  we  share  : — confound  the  brutes 
Who  turn  sweet  warblers  into  mutes, 
And  clothe  their  mates  in  mourning-suits — 
Confound  the  Cats  1 

O  one-tailed  Cats,  remorseless  crew ! 
Did  all  Garotters  meet  their  due, 
A  nine-tailed  Cat  would  harry  you — 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

When  Thetis  dipped  her  bantling  stout 
In  Styx,  she  pulled  him  quickly  out 
By  the  heel — whence  came  Achilles'  gout : 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

Far  different  guerdon  thou  shouldst  win, 

Tenny  !  for  thine  enormous  sin ; 

No  heel  I'd  hold,  but  plump  thee  in  : 

Confound  the  Cats ! 

O  utinam  the  watery  strife 
Absorbed  the  last  Cat's  last  ninth  life. 
Nor  left  one  thread  for  Fate's  sharp  knife ! 
Confound  the,  Cats ! 

Were  the  Cat-world  one-necked,  as  Nero 
Wished  all  mankind  a  one-necked  hero, 
"  Off  with  his  head  !"  I'd  ring  out  clear.  Oh 
Confound  the  Cats ! 

But  hush,  my  soul,  bereavement-riven  ! 
Bow  to  the  dark  behest  of  Heaven — 
In  this  round  world  there  may  be  even 

Needs-be  for  Cats  I 


POEMS  BY  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


WOMEN.i 

Women,  women,  love  of  women, 
Make  bare  purse  with  some  men  ! 
Some  be  nice  as  a  nunne  hen, 

Yit  all  they  be  nat  so. 
Some  be  lewd,  some  all  be  shrewed, — ^ 

Go  shrews  where  they  go. 

Some  be  wise,  and  some  be  fond, 
And  some  be  tame,  I  understond, 
And  some  can  take  bread  of  a  man's  hond, 
Yit  all  they  be  nat  so. 

Some  will  be  drunken  as  a  mouse  ; 
Some  be  crooked,  and  will  hurt  a  louse  ; 
And  some  be  fair,  and  good  in  a  house  ; 

Yit  all  be  nat  so  : 
For  some  be  lewd,  and  some  be  shrewed, — 

Go  shrew  wheresoever  ye  go. 

Some  can  prate  withouten  hire. 

And  some  make  debate  in  every  shire, 

And  some  checkmate  with  oure  sire, 

Yit  all  they  be  nr.t  so. 
Some  be  lewd,  and  some  be  shrewed, 

Go  where  they  go. 

Some  be  brown,  and  some  be  white, 
And  some  be  tender  as  a  tripe. 
And  some  of  them  be  cherry-ripe, 

Yit  all  they  be  nat  so. 
Some  be  lewd,  and  some  be  shrewed, 

Go  where  they  go. 

1  The  date  of  this  poem  may  be  towards  1460.  I  have  seen  three  several  ver- 
sions of  it.  Two  of  them  aie  nearly  alike,  and  are  here  substantially  repro- 
duced. From  the  other,  which  differs  considerably,  I  have  taken  the  stanza 
which  appears  third  in  the  present  reprint. 

2  Curst,  hateful. 


358  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

Some  of  them  be  true  of  love 
Beneath  the  girdle  but  not  above. 
And  in  a  hood  above  can  chove  ; 

Yit  all  they  be  nat  so. 
Some  be  lewd,  and  some  be  shrewed, 

Go  where  they  go. 

Some  can  whister,  and  some  can  cry  j 
Some  can  flatter,  and  some  can  lie  ; 
And  some  can  set  the  moke  awry  ; 

Yit  all  they  do  nat  so. 
Some  be  lewd,  and  some  be  shrewed, 

Go  where  they  go. 

He  that  made  this  song  full  good 

Came  of  the  north  and  the  southern  blood. 

And  somewhat  kine  ^  to  Robin  Hood  ; 

Yit  all  we  be  nat  so. 
Some  be  lewd,  and  some  be  shrewed, 

Go  where  they  go  ; 
Some  be  lewd  and  some  be  shrewed, 

Go  where  they  go. 


A  GOOD  MEDICINE  FOR  SORE  EYNE.2 

For  a  man  that  is  almost  blind, 
Let  him  go  barehead  all  day  again  the  wind, 

Till  the  sun  be  set ; 
And  than  wrap  him  in  a  cloak, 
And  put  him  in  a  house  full  of  smoke. 
And  look  that  every  hole  be  well  shet. 
And,  whan  his  eyes  begin  to  rope. 
Fill  hem  full  of  brimstone  and  soap, 

And  hyll  ■^  him  well  and  warm. 
And,  if  he  be  not,  by  the  next  moon, 
As  well  at  midnight  as  at  noon, 

I  shall  lese  my  right  arm. 


TRUST  IN  WOMEN. 
When  these  things  following  be  done  fo  our  intent, 
Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confident. 

When  nettles  in  winter  bring  forth  roses  red,^ 
And  all  manner  of  thorn-trees  bear  figs  naturally, 

And  geese  bear  pearls  in  every  mead, 

And  laurel  bear  cherries  abundantly, 
And  oaks  bear  dates  very  plenteously, 

IKin. 

*  Date  towards  1480  :  so  also  for  the  two  poems  that  follow  next. 

3  Cover. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  359 

And  kisks  give  of  honey  superfluence, 
Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  box  bear  paper  in  every  lond  and  town, 

And  thistles  bear  berries  in  every  place, 
And  pikes  have  naturally  feathers  in  their  crown. 

And  bulls  of  the  sea  sing  a  good  bass, 

And  men  be  the  ships  fishes  do  trace, 

And  in  women  be  found  no  insipience. 

Than  put  hem  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  whitings  do  walk  forests  to  chase  harts. 
And  herrings  their  horns  in  forests  boldly  blow, 

And  marmsats  morn  in  moors  and  in  lakes, 
And  gurnards  shoot  rooks  out  of  a  cross-bow, 
And  goslings  hunt  the  wolf  to  overthrow, 
And  sprats  bear  spears  in  armes  of  defence, 

Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  swine  be  cunning  in  all  points  of  music, 

And  asses  be  doctors  of  every  science. 
And  cats  do  heal  men  be  practising  of  physic. 

And  buzzards  to  scripture  gif  ony  credence, 
And  marchans  buy  with  horn,  instead  of  groats  and  pence, 
And  pyes  be  made  poets  for  their  eloquence, 
Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  spaiTows  build  churches  on  a  heighth, 
And  wi'ens  carry  seeks  -^  onto  the  mill. 

And  curlews  carry  timber  houses  to  dighth,^ 
And  fomalls  bear  butter  to  market  to  sell, 
And  woodcocks  wear  woodknives  cranes  to  kill, 
And  greenfinches  to  goslings  do  obedience, 

Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  crowves  take  sarmon  ^  in  woods  and  parks, 
And  be  take  with  swifts  and  snails. 

And  camels  in  the  air  take  swallows  and  larks. 
And  mice  move  mountains  with  wagging  of  their  tails, 
Aitd  shipmen  take  a  ryd  instead  of  sails. 

And  when  wifes  to  their  husbands  do  no  offence. 

Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  hantlopes  surmounts  eagles  in  flight, 

And  swans  be  swifter  than  hawks  of  ihc  tower, 

And  wrens  set  gos-hawks  be  force  and  might, 
And  muskets  make  vergcce  of  crabbes  sour, 
And  ships  sail  on  dry  lond,  syll  gyfe  flower,* 
And  apes  in  Westminster  gif  judgment  and  sentence. 

Than  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

i  Sacks.  2  Construct.  3  Salmon. 

■*  I  don't  understand  these  three  words — not  to  speak  of  some  few  otiicts 
passim. 


56o  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


GOSSIP  MINE.i 

I  WILL  you  tell  a  full  good  sport, 
How  gossips  gather  them  on  a  sort, 
Their  sick  bodies  for  to  comfort, 
When  they  meet  in  a  lane  or  street. 

But  I  dare  not,  for  their  displeasance, 
Tell  of  these  matters  half  the  substance  ; 
But  yet  somewhat  of  their  governance, 
As  far  as  I  dare,  I  will  declare. 

"Good  gossip  mine,  where  have  ye  be? 
It  is  so  long  sith  I  you  see  ! 
Where  is  the  best  wine  ?     Tell  you  me  : 
Can  you  aught  tell  full  well. " 

"  I  know  a  draught  of  merry-go-down, — 
The  best  it  is  in  all  this  town  : 
But  yet  would  I  not,  for  my  gown, 
My  husband  it  wist, — ye  may  me  trust, 

"  Call  forth  your  gossips  by  and  by, — 
Elinore,  Joan,  and  Margery, 
Margaret,  Alice,  and  Cecily  ; 
For  they  will  come,  both  all  and  some. 

•'  And  each  of  them  will  somewhat  bring, — 
Goose,  pig,  or  capon's  wing, 
Pasties  of  pigeons,  or  some  such  thing  : 
For  a  gallon  of  wine  they  will  not  vy^ring. 

"  Go  before  be  twain  and  twain, 
Wisely,  that  ye  be  not  seen  ; 
For  I  must  home — and  come  again — 
To  wit,  I  wis,  where  my  husband  is. 

"  A  stripe  or  two  God  might  send  me, 
If  my  husband  might  here  see  me." 
"  She  that  is  afeard,  let  her  flee  !" 
Quod  Alice  than  :  "  I  dread  no  man  !" 

"Now  be  we  in  tavern  set ; 
A  draught  of  the  best  let  him  fett, 
To  bring  our  husbands  out  of  debt  ; 
For  we  will  spend  till  God  more  send." 

1  Of  this  poem  I  have  seen  two  versions.  On  the  whole,  I  think  the  one  here 
printed  is  superior  in  touches  of  character  and  manners.  The  other  differs  in 
arrangement  and  in  numerous  details,  and  devotes  some  stanzas  to  an  incident 
which  does  not  appear  at  all  in  our  rersion — namely,  the  summoning  of  a 
harpet  for  the  diversion  of  the  "merry  wives." 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  361 


Each  of  them  brought  forth  their  dish  : 

Some  brought  flesh,  and  some  fish. 

Quod  Margaret  meek  :   "  Now,  with  a  wish, 

I  would  Anne  were  here — she  would  make  us  cheer. 

"  How  say  you,  gossips  ?     Is  this  wine  good  ?" 
"That  it  is,"  quod  Elinore,   "by  the  rood  ! 
It  cherisheth  the  heart,  and  comfort  the  blood  ; 
Such  junkets  among  shall  make  us  live  long." 

"  Anne,  bid  fill  a  pot  of  muscadel. 

For  of  all  wines  I  love  it  well. 

Sweet  wines  keep  my  body  in  hele  : 

If  I  had  of  it  nought,  I  should  take  great  thought. 

"  How  look  ye,  gossip,  at  the  board's  end  ? 
Not  merry,  gossip  ?     God  it  amend  ! 
All  shall  be  well,  else  God  it  defend  : 
Be  merry  and  glad,  and  sit  not  so  sad." 

"  Would  God  I  had  done  after  your  counsel ! 
For  my  husband  is  so  fell 
He  beateth  me  like  the  devil  of  hell ; 
And,  the  more  I  cry,  the  less  mercy." 

Alice  ^^^th  a  loud  voice  spake  than  : 

"  I  wis,"  she  said,  "  little  good  he  can 

That  beateth  or  strilceth  ony  woman, 

And  specially  his  wife  : — God  give  him  short  live  !" 

Margaret  meek  said  :   "  So  mote  I  thrife, 

I  know  no  man  that  is  alife 

That  give  me  two  strokes  but  he  shall  have  fife  ; 

I  am  not  afeard,  though  I  have  no  beard." 

One  cast  down  her  shot,  and  went  her  way. 
"Gossip,"  quod  Elinore,  "what  did  she  pay?" 
"  Not  but  a  penny."     "  Lo  therefore  I  say 
She  shall  be  no  more  of  our  lore. 

"  Such  guests  we  may  have  enow 

That  will  not  for  their  shot  allow. 

With  whom  come  she  ?     Gossip,  with  you  ?" 

*'Nay,"  quod  Joan,  "  I  come  alone." 

"  Now  reckon  our  shot,  and  go  we  hence. 
What !  cost  it  each  of  us  but  three  pence  ? 
Pardie  !  this  is  but  a  small  expense 
For  such  a  sort,  and  all  but  sport. 

"Turn  down  the  street  where  ye  come  out, 
And  we  will  compass  round-about." 
"Gossip,"  quod  Anne,  "what  necdeth  that  doubt? 
Your  husbands  be  pleased  when  ye  be  reised. 


362  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

"  Whatsoever  ony  man  think, 

We  come  for  nought  but  for  good  drink. 

Now  let  us  go  home  and  wink  ; 

For  it  may  be  seen  where  we  have  been." 

From  the  tavern  be  they  all  gone  ; 
And  everich  of  hem  showeth  her  wisdom, 
And  there  she  telleth  her  husband  anon 
She  had  been  at  the  church.^ 

This  is  the  thought  that  gossips  take  ; 
Once  in  the  week  merry  will  they  make, 
And  all  small  drink  they  will  forsake. 
But  wine  of  the  best  shall  han  no  rest. 

Some  be  at  the  tavern  once  in  a  week. 
And  so  be  some  every  day  eke, 
Or  else  they  will  groan  and  make  them  sick ; 
For  things  used  will  not  be  refused. 

How  say  you,  women,  is  it  not  so  ? 
Yes  surely,  and  that  ye  well  know  : 
And  therefore  let  us  drink  all  a-row, 
And  of  our  singing  make  a  good  ending. 

Now  fill  the  cup,  and  drink  to  me. 
And  than  shall  we  good  fellows  be  : — 
And  of  this  talking  leave  will  we, 
And  speak  then  good  of  women. 


JOLLY  GOOD  ALE  AND  OLD.  2 

Back  and  side,  go  bare,  go  bare  ! 

Both  hand  and  foot,  go  cold  ! 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old  ! 

But-if  that  I 

May  have  truly 
Good  ale  my  bellyful, 

I  shall  look  like  one. 

By  sweet  Saint  John, 
Were  shorn  against,  the  wool. 

Thouth  I  go  bare. 

Take  you  no  care, 
I  am  nothing  cold, 

I  stuff  my  skin 

So  full  within 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 


1  This  neat  touch  comes  from  the  second  version  of  the  poem. 

2  The  date  of  this  chant  may  be  somewhere  towards  1540. 


Ul^ KNOWN  WRITERS.  363 


I  cannot  eat 

But  little  meat, 
My  stomach  is  not  good  ; 

But  sure  I  think 

That  I  could  drink 
With  him  that  wear'tli  an  hood. 

Drink  is  my  life, 

Although  my  wife 
Sometime  do  chide  and  scold  : 

Yet  spare  I  not 

To  ply  the  pot 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  &c. 

I  love  no  roast, 

But  a  brown  toast, 
Or  a  crab  in  the  fire ; 

A  little  bread 

Shall  do  me  stead, — 
Much  bread  I  never  desire. 

Nor  frost  nor  snow. 

Nor  wind,  I  trow, 
Can  hurt  me  if  it  wold  ; 

I  am  so  wrapped 

Within  and  lapped 
With  jolly  good  ale  and  olcL 
Back  and  side  &c. 

I  care  right  nought, 

I  take  no  thought 
For  clothes  to  keep  me  warm  j 

Have  I  good  drink, 

I  surely  think 
Nothing  can  do  me  harm. 

For  truly  than 

I  fear  no  man. 
Be  he  never  so  bold. 

When  I  am  armed 

And  throughly  warmed 
With  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  &c. 

But  now  and  than 

I  curse  and  ban, 
They  make  their  ale  so  small  ; 

God  give  them  care. 

And  evil  to  fare, — 
They  strye  ^  the  malt  and  all  ! 

Such  peevish  pew — 

I  tell  you  true — 


1  Destroy,  ruin,  spoil. 


364  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

Not  for  a  crown  of  gold 
There  cometh  one  sip 
Within  my  lip, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

Back  and  side  &c. 

Good  ale  and  strong 

Mak'th  me  among 
Full  jocund  and  full  light,' 

That  oft  I  sleep, 

And  take  no  keep, 
From  morning  until  night. 

Then  start  I  up. 

And  flee  to  the  cup  ; 
The  right  way  on  I  hold 

My  thirst  to  staunch  ; 

I  fill  my  paunch 
With  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  &c. 

And  Kitt,  my  wife, 

That  as  her  life 
Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 

Full  oft  drinketh  she. 

That  ye  may  see 
The  tears  run  down  her  cheek. 

Then  doth  she  troll 

To  me  the  bowl. 
As  a  good  malt-worm  shold, — 

And  say  :  "  Sweetheart, 

I  have  take  my  part 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old." 
Back  and  side  &c. 

They  that  do  drink 
Till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do, 
They  shall  not  miss 
To  have  the  bliss 

That  good  ale  hath  brought  them  to. 
And  all  poor  souls 
That  scour  black  bowls, 

And  them  hath  lustily  trolled, 
God  save  the  lives 
Of  them  and  their  wives. 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old  ! 

Back  and  side  &c. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  365 


AS  IT  BEFELL  ONE  SATURDAY.i 

As  it  befell  one  Saturday  at  noon, 

As  I  went  up  Scotland  gate, 
1  heard  one  to  another  say, 

"John  a'  Bagilie  hath  lost  his  mate;" 

At  Eaton  Water  I  wash  my  hands — 
For  tickling  ^  tears  I  could  scarce  see  : 

I  lifted  up  my  lily-white  hands  : 

"  O  Katty  Whitworth,  God  be  with  thee  ! 

* '  There  is  none  but  you  and  I,  sweetheart, 

No  lookers-on  we  can  allow  : 
Yqur  lips  they  be  so  sugared  sweet 

I  must  do  more  than  kiss  you  now  ! 

"  Farewell,  my  love,  my  leave  I  take  : 
Though  aganist  my  will,  it  must  be  so  : 

No  marvel  all  this  moan  I  make  : 
Whom  I  love  best  I  must  forego  ! 

"  If  that  thou  wilt  Scotland  forsake, 
And  come  into  fair  England  with  me, 

Ijoth  kith  and  kin  I  will  forsake, 

Bonny  sweet  wench,  to  go  with  thee." 

There  was  two  men,  they  loved  a  lass  : 

The  one  of  them  he  was  a  Scot, 
The  other  was  an  Englishman — 

The  name  of  him  I  have  quite  forgot. 

As  I  went  up  Kelsall  wood, 

And  up  that  bank  that  was  so  stair,* 
I  looked  over  my  left  shoulder. 

Where  I,  was  wont  to  see  my  dear. 

"  There  is  sixteen  in  thy  father's  house  : 

Fifteen  of  them  against  me  be  : 
Not  one  of  them  to  take  my  part, 

But  only  thou,  pretty  Kattyc." 

The  young  man  walked  home  again, 

As  time  of  niglit  thereto  moves  : 
The  fair  maid  called  him  back  again. 

And  gave  to  him  a  sweet  pair  of  gloves. 

1  This  is  a  specimen  of  tlie  compositions  termed  "Tom-a- Bedlams,"  common 
and  popular  towards  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  fun  of 
them  consists  in  their  perpetual  incongruities  or  irrelevancies. 

2  Probably  a  mis-writing  for  "  trickling  :  "  or  the  change  7nay  be  intentional. 

3  Steer,  steep. 


566  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


"Thy  father  hath  silver  and  gold  enough, 
Silver  and  gold  to  maintain  thee  ; 

But  as  for  that  I  do  not  care, 

So  that  thou  wilt  my  true  love  be." 

"  When  I  was  young  and  in  my  youth, 
Then  could  I  have  lovers  two  or  three :  ] 

Now  I  am  old,  and  count  the  hours, 

And  fain  would  do — but  it  will  not  be."\ 

"  Upon  your  lips  my  leave  I  take. 

Desiring  you  to  be  my  friend, 
And  grant  me  love  for  love  again. 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end. 

"  My  mother,  Kate,  hath  sent  for  me, 

And  needly  her  I  must  obey. 
I  weigh  not  of  thy  constancy 

When  I  am  fled  and  gone  away. 


(t 


I  weep,  I  wail,  I  wring  my  hands, 
I  sob,  I  sigh,  I  make  heavy  cheer  I 
No  marvel  all  this  moan  I  make. 
For  why,  alas  !   I  have  lost  my  dear ! " 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  367 


MARK   MORE.i  FOOL. 

To  pass  the  time  thereas  I  went, 

A.  history  there  I  chanced  to  read. — 
Whereas  Salomon  reigned  king, 

He  did  many  a  worthy  deed, 
And  many  statutes  he  caused  to  be  made  : 

And  this  was  one  amongst  the  rest  plain — 
It  was  felony  to  any  one  that  found  aught  was  lost, 

And  would  not  restore  it  to  the  owner  again. 

So  then  there  was  a  rich  merchant  : 

As  he  rode  to  a  market-town. 
It  was  his  chance  to  lose  his  purse  : 

He  said  there  was  in  it  a  hmidred  pound. 
A  proclamation  he  caused  to  be  made, 

Whosoever  could  find  the  same  again 
Should  give  it  him  again  without  all  doubt, 

And  he  should  have  for  twenty  pound  his  pain. 

So  then  there  was  a  silly  poor  man 

Had  two  sheep's  pells  upon  his  back  to  sell, 
And,  going  to  the  market-town, 

He  found  the  purse,  and  liked  it  well. 
He  took  it  up  into  his  hand. 

And  needs  see  what  was  in  it  he  wold  : 
But  the  same  he  could  not  understand — 

For  why,  there  was  nothing  in  it  but  gold. 

The  rich  man  he  pursued  him  soon. 

"  Thou  whoreson  villain  !  "  quoth  he  then, 
"  I  think  it  is  thou  that  has  found  my  purse. 

And  wilt  thou  not  give  it  me  again  ?  " 
"  Good  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  found  such  a  purse — 

The  truth  full  soon  it  shall  be  known. 
You  shall  have  it  again,  it's  never  the  worse, 

But  pay  me  my  safety  that  is  mine  own." 

"  Let  me  see  what's  in  the  purse,"  said  the  merchant. 

"  Found  thou  a  hundred  pound  and  no  more? 
Thou  whoreson  villain  !  thou  hast  paid  thyself ! 

For  in  my  purse  was  full  six  score. 

It's  best  my  purse  to  me  thou  restore, 
Or  before  the  king  thou  shalt  be  brought." 

"  I  warrant,"  quoth  he,  "  when  I  come  the  king  before, 
He'll  not  reward  me  again  with  nought." 

Then  they  led  him  towards  the  king  : 
And,  as  they  led  him  on  the  way, 

1  Mr.    Furnivall,  who   edited   this    piece  from   tlic   Percy  MS.,  supposes 
"  More"  to  represent  Morio,  or  /ua>p6j,  a  blockhead. 


368  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

And  there  met  him  a  gallant  knight, 

And  with  him  was  his  lady  gay. 
With  tugging  and  lugging  this  poor  man, 

His  leather  skins  began  to  crack  : 
The  gelding  was  wanton  the  lady  rode  on, 

And  threw  her  down  beside  his  back. 

Then  to  the  earth  she  got  a  thwack 

(No  hurt  in  the  world  the  poor  man  did  mean), 
To  the  ground  he  cast  the  lady  there  ; 

On  a  stub  she  dang  out  one  of  her  een. 

The  knight  M'ould  needs  upon  him  have  been. 
"  Nay,"  said  the  merchant,  "  I  pray  you,  sir,  stay  : 

I  have  a  action  against  him  already  : 
He  shall  be  brought  to  the  king,  and  hanged  this  day.'" 

Then  they  led  him  towards  the  king  ; 

But  the  poor  man  liked  not  their  leading  well, 
And,  coming  near  to  the  seaside, 

He  thought  to  be  drowned  or  save  himself. 
And,  as  he  lope  into  the  sea, 

No  harm  to  no  man  he  did  wot ;  .  . 

33ut  there  he  light  upon  two  fishermen  : 

With  the  leap  he  broke  one  of  their  necks  in  a  boat. 

The  other  would  needs  upon  him  have  been. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  merchant,  "  I  pray  thee  now  stay  ; 
We  have  two  actions  against  him  already  : 

He  shall  be  carried  to  the  king,  and  hanged  this  day." 
Then  they  led  him  bound  before  the  king. 

Where  he  sate  in  a  gallery  gay. 
"My  liege,"  said  the  merchant,  "we  have  brought  such  a 
villain 

As  came  not  before  you  this  many  a  day. 

"  For  it  was  my  chance  to  lose  my  purse. 

And  in  it  there  was  full  six  score  : 
And  now  the  villain  will  not  give  it  me  again, 

Except  that  he  had  twenty  pound  more. " 
"I  cut  ^  I  have  a  worse  match  than  that,"  said  the  knight, 

"  For  I  know  not  what  the  villain  did  mean  : 
He  caused  my  gelding  to  cast  my  lady  ; 

On  a  stub  she  hath  dang  out  one  of  her  een." 

"  But  I  have  the  worst  match  of  all,"  said  the  fisher, 

For  I  may  sigh  and  say  God  wot ! 
He  lope  at  me  and  my  brother  upon  the  seas  : 

With  the  leap  he  hath  broken  my  brother's  neck  in  a  boat." 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  3^9 


The  king  he  turned  him  round-about, 

Being  well  advised  of  everything  : — 
Quoth  he  :  "  Never  since  I  can  remember, 

Came  three  such  matters  since  I  was  king." 

Then  Mark  More,  fool,  being  by, 

"  How  now,  brother  Salomon  ?  "  then  quoth  he. 
Gif  you  will  not  give  judgment  of  these  three  matters, 

I  pray  you,  return  them  o'er  to  me." 
"With  all  my  heart,"  quoth  Salomon  to  him  ; 

"  Take  you  the  judgment  of  them  as  yet ; 
For  never  came  matters  me  before 

That  fainer  of  I  would  be  quit." 

"Well,"  quoth  Mark,  "  we  have  these  three  men  here, 

And  every  one  hath  put  up  a  bill. 
But,  poor  man,  come  nither  to  me  : 

Let's  hear  what  tale  thou  canst  tell  for  thyself." 
"  Why,  my  lord,"  quoth  he,  "  as  touching  this  merchant, — ■ 

As  he  rode  to  a  market-town, 
It  was  his  chance  to  lose  his  purse  : 

He  said  there  was  in  it  a  hundred  pound. 

"  A  proclamation  he  caused  to  be  made. 

Whosoever  could  find  the  same  again  plain 
Should  give  it  him  again  without  all  doubt, 

And  he  should  have  twenty  pound  for  his  pain. 
And  it  was  my  chance  to  find  that  jTurse, 

And  gladly  to  him  I  would  it  restore  : 
But  now  he  would  reward  me  with  nothing, 

But  challengeth  in  his  purse  twenty  pound  more." 

"  Hast  thou  any  witness  of  that?"  said  my  lord  Mark  : 

"I  pray  thee,  fellow,  tell  me  round." 
"  Yes,  my  lord,  here's  his  owne  man 

That  carried  the  message  from  town  to  town." 
The  man  was  called  before  them  all  ; 

And  said  it  was  a  hundred  pound  plain. 
And  that  his  master  would  give  twenty  pound 

To  any  wOuld  give  him  his  purse  again. 

"  I  had  forgotten  twenty  pound,"  said  the  merchant,  , 

"  Give  me  leave  for  myself  to  say." 
"  Nay,"  said  Mark,  "  thou  challengeth  more  than  thine  own  J 

Therefore  with  the  poor  fellow  the  purse  shall  stay. 
And  this  shall  be  my  judgment  straight  : —  \ 

Thou  shalt  follow  each  day  by  the  heeles  plain 
Till  thou  have  found  such  another  purse  with  him. 

And  then  keep  it  thyself,  and  ne'er  give  it  him  again." 

"Marry  !  our  gods  forbot,"  said  the  merchant, 

"  That  ever  so  bad  should  be  my  share  ! 

2  A 


370  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

How  should  I  find  a  hundred  pound  of  him  '■ 
That  hath  not  a  hundred  pence  to  spare  ? 

Rather  I'll  give  him  twenty  pound  more  ; 
And  with  that  he  hath  let  him  stay." 

"  Marry  !  render  us  down  the  money,"  said  Mark, 
"  So  may  thou  chance  go  quietly  away. — 

"  Fellow,  how  hinderedst  thou  the  knight  ? 

Thou  must  make  him  amends  here,  I  mean. 
It's  against  law  and  right  : 

His  lady  she  hath  lost  one  of  her  een." 
"Why,  my  lord,  as  they  led  me  towards  the  king. 

For  fear  lest  I  should  lost  my  trattle, 
These  leather  skins  you  see  me  bring, 

With  tugging  and  lugging,  began  to- rattle. 

"  The  gelding  was  wanton  the  lady  rode  upon  : 

No  hurt  in  the  world,  my  lord,  I  did  mean  : 
To  the  ground  he  cast  that  lady  there, 

And  on  a  stub  she  dang  out  one  of  her  een." 
"Fellow,"  quoth  Mark,   "hath  thy  wife  two  eyes? 

I  pray  thee,"  quoth  he,  "tell  me  then." 
"  Yes,  my  lord — a  good  honest  poor  woman, 

That  for  her  living  takes  great  pain." 

"  Why,  then,  this  shall  be  my  judgment  straight, 

Though  thou  perhaps  may  think  it  strange  : 
Thy  wife  with  two  eyes,  his  lady  hath  but  one. 

As  thou  hast  dressed  her,  with  him  thou'st  change.' 
"Marry,  our  gods  forbot,"  then  said  the  knight, 

"  That  ever  so  bad  should  be  my  shame  ! 
I  had  rather  give  him  a  hundred  pound 

Than  to  be  troubled  with  his  dunnish  dame  ! " 

"Marry  !  tender  us  down  the  money,"  said  Mark, 

"  So  may  thou  be  gone  within  a  while." — 
But  the  fisher,  for  fear  he  should  have  been  called. 

He  ran  away  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
"  I  pray  you,  call  him.  again,"  quoth  Mark, 

"  Gif  he  be  within  sight ; 
For  never  came  matter  me  before 

But  every  man  should  have  his  right. " 

They  called  the  Gsher  back  again, 

"  How  now,  fellow  ?  why  didst  not  stay  ?  " 
"My  lord,"  quoth  he,  "I  have  a  great  way  home, 

And  fain  I  would  be  gone  my  way." 
"  But,  fellow,  how  hinderedst  thou  this  fisher  ? 

I  pray  thee,"  quoth  Mark,  "to  us  tell." 
"  My  lord,  as  I  came  near  the   easide, 

I  thought  either  to  be  drowned  or  save  myself. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  371 

*'  And  as  I  lope  into  the  sea — 

No  harm  to  no  man  I  did  wot — 
There  I  light  upon  this  fisher's  brother  : 

With  a  leap  I  broke  his  neck  in  a  boat." 
"Fisher,"  quoth  Mark,    "  knowest  thou  where  the  boat 
stood  ? 

Thou'st  set  her  again  in  the  selfsame  stead, 
And  thou'st  leap  at  him  as  he  did  at  thy  brother, 
And  so  thou  may  quit  thy  brother's  dead." 

"  Marry,  gods  forbot,"  then  said  the  fisher, 

"That  ever  so  bad  should  be  my  luck  ! 
If  I  leap  at  him  as  he  did  at  my  brother, 

I'st  either  be  drowned,  or  break  my  neck. 
Rather  I'll  give  him  twenty  pound. 

An    I  would,  my  lord,  I  had  ne'er  come  hither." 
"Marry,  tender  us  down  the  money,"  said  Mark, 

"  And  you  shall  be  packing  all  three  together." 

The  poor  man  he  was  well  content. 

And  very  well  pleased  of  everything : 
lie  said  he  would  ne'er  take  great  care 

How  oft  he  came  before  the  king. — 
These  other  three  could  never  agree. 

But  every  one  fell  out  with  other  ; 
And  said  they  would  ne'er  come  more  to  the  king 

While  he  was  in  company  with  Mark  his  brother. 


THE  POOR  MAN  AND  THE  KING.i 

It  was  a  poor  man,  he  dwelled  in  Kent ; 
He  paid  our  King  five  pound  of  rent. 

And  there  is  a  lawyer  dwelt  him  by  ; 

A  fault  in  his  lease,  God  wot,  he  hath  found  : 
"And  all  M^as  for  falling  of  five  ash-trees 

To  build  me  a  house  of  my  own  good  ground. 

"  I  bid  him  let  me  and  my  ground  alone  ; 

To  cease  his  self,  if  he  was  willing. 
And  pick  no  vantages  out  of  my  lease  : 

And  he  seemed  a  good  fellow,  I  would  give  him  forty 
shilling. 

1  "This,"  s,iys  Mr.  Furnivall,  "is  a  Kent  version  of  the  ballad  which  Martin 
Parker  issued  as  a  Northumberland  one  in  1640,  with  the  title  The  King; anda 
Poor  Northern  Man."  In  this  latter  nuich  altered  form,  tlie  poem  has  passed 
as  Parker's  own  composition,  but  perhaps  not  correctly  so:  it  is  to  be  found 
ill  Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt's  Early  I'o/>u!ar  Foctr^ 


372  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

"  Forty  shilling  nor  forty  ponnd 

Would  not  agree  this  lawyer  and  me, 
Without  I  would  give  him  of  my  farm-ground, 

And  stand  to  his  good  courtesy." 

He  said — Nay,  by  his  fay,  that  he  would  not  do. 
For  wife  and  children  would  make  mad  wark  ; 

J3ut,  and  he  would  let  him  and  his  ground  alone — 

He  seemed  a  good  fellow, — he  would  give  him  five  mark. 

He  said — Nay,  by  his  fay,  that  he  would  not  do. 

For  five  good  ash-trees  tJiat  he  fell. 
"Then  I'll  do  as  neighbours  have  put  me  in  head 

I'll  make  a  submission  to  the  King  myself." 

By  that  he  had  gone  a  day's  journey, 

One  of  his  neighbours  he  did  spy. 
' '  Neighbour,  how  far  off  have  I  to  our  King  ? 

I  am  going  towards  him  as  fast  as  I  can  hie." 

"Alas  to-day,"  said  his  neighbour, 

"  It's  for  you  I  make  all  this  moan. 
You  may  talk  of  that  time  enough 

By  that  ten  days'  journey  you  have  gone." 

But,  when  he  came  to  London  Street, 

For  an  host-house  he  did  call. 
He  lay  so  long  o'  the  tether  morning  asleep 

That  the  court  was  removed  to  Windsor  Hall. 

"  Arise,  my  guest,  you  have  great  need  ; 

You  have  lien  too  long  even  by  a  great  while  : 
The  court  is  removed  to  Windsor  this  morning  ; 

He  is  further  off  to  seek  by  twenty  mile." 

"  Alack  to-day  !  "  quoth  the  poor  man, 
"  I  think  not  ^  your  King  at  me  got  wit  : 

Had  he  knowen  of  my  coming, 

I  think  he  would  have  tarried  yet." 

"He  foled  not  for  you,"  theii  said  his  host  ; 

"But  hie  you  to  Windsor  as-fast  as  you  may  ; 
And  all  your  costs  ana  your  charges 

Have  you  no  doubt  but  the  King  will  pay." 

He  hath  gotten  a  grey  russet  gown  on  his  back, 
And  a  hood  well  buckled  under  his  chin, 

And  a  long  staff  upon  his  neck, 
And  he  is  to  Windsor  to  our  King. 

1  This  "not"  (which  is  my  interpolation)  seems  needed  to  reconcile  the  sense 
of  line  2  with  that  of  lines  3  and  4. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  373 

So,  when  he  came  to  Windsor  Hall, 

The  gates  were  shut  as  he  there  stood. 
He  knocked  and  poled  with  a  great  long  staff  ■: 

The  porter  had  thought  he  had  been  wood. 

He  knocked  again  with  might  and  main  : 

Says,  "  Hey  ho  !  is  our  King  within?" — 
With  tliat  he  proffered  a  great  reward, 

A  single  penny,  to  let  him  come  in. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  quoth  the  porter  then  ; 

"  The  reward  is  so  great  I  cannot  say  nay. 
There  is  a  nobleman  standing  by  : 

First  I'll  go  hear  what  he  will  say." 

The  nobleman  then  came  to  the  gates, 

And  asked  him  what  his  business  might  be. 

"Nay,  soft,"  quoth  the  fellow  ;   "I  tell  thee  not  yet, 
Before  I  do  the  King  himself  see. 

"  It  was  told  me  ere  I  came  from  home 

That  gentlemen's  hounds  eaten  arrands  by  the  way, 

And  poor  cur-dogs  may  eat  mine  : 

Therefore  I  mean  my  own  arrands  to  say." 

"But  and  thou  come  in,"  says  the  porter  then, 
"Thy  bumble-staff  behind  we  must  stay." 

"  Beshrew  thee,  liar  !  "  then  said  the  poor  man  ; 

"  Then  may  thou  term  me  a  fool,  or  a  worse. 
I  know  not  what  bankrouts  be  about  our  King 

For  lack  of  money  would  take  my  purse." 

"  Hold  him  back,"  then  said  the  nobleman, 
'*  And  more  of  his  speech  we  will  have  soon, 

I'll  .see  how  he  can  answer  the  matter, 
As  soon  as  the  match  at  bowls  is  done." 

The  porter  took  the  poor  man  by  the  hand, 

And  led  him  before  the  nobleman. 
He  kneelfcd  down  upon  liLs  knees. 

And  these  words  to  him  said  then  : — 

And  you  be  sir  King,"  then  said  the  poor  man, 
"  You  are  the  goodliest  fellow  that  ever  I  see  : 
You  have  so  many  jingles-jangles  about  ye 
I  never  see  man  wear  but  ye." 

"I  am  not  the  King,"  the  nobleman  said, 

"Although  I  wear  now  a  proud  coat." 
"And  yo\i  be  not  King,  and  you'll  brinp  me  to  him, 

For  your  reward  I'll  give  you  a  groat. ' 


374  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  nobleman; 

' '  Your  reward  is  so  great  I  cannot  say  nay. 
I'll  first  go  know  our  King's  pleasure  : 

Till  I  come  again  be  sure  that  you  stay." 

"  Here  is  such  a  staying,"  said  the  poor  man, 
"  I  think  the  King's  better  here  than  in  our  countrie  : 

1  could  have  gone  to  farmost  nook  in  the  house, 
Neither  lad  nor  man  to  have  troubled  me." 

The  nobleman  went  before  our  King, 

So  well  he  knew  his  courtesy. 
"  There  is  one  of  the  rankest  clowns  at  your  gates 

That  ever  Englishman  did  see. 

"  He  calls  them  knaves  your  highness  keep  ; 

"Withal  he  calls  them  somev\^hat  worse. 
He  dare  not  come  in  without  a  long  staff : 

He's  feared  lest  some  bankrout  should  pick  his  purse.'* 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  then  said  our  king  ; 

"  Let  him  come  in,  and  his  staff  too. 
We'll  see  how  we  can  answer  every  matter. 

Now  the  match  at  bowls  is  do." 

The  nobleman  took  the  poor  man  by  the  hand, 

And  led  him  through  chambers  and  galleries  high. 
*  What  does  our  king  with  so  many  empty  houses, 
And  gars  them  not  filled  with  corn  and  hay  ?  " 

And,  as  they  went  through  one  alley, 

The  nobleman  soon  the  king  did  spy. 
"  Yond  is  the  king,"  the  nobleman  said  : 

"  Look  thee,  good  fellow,  yond  he  goes  by." 

"  Belike  he  is  some  unthrift,"  said  the  poor  man, 
"  And  he  hath  made  some  of  his  clothes  away." 

"Now  hold  thy  tongue,"  said  the  nobleman, 
"  And  take  good  heed  what  thou  dost  say." 

(The  weather  it  was  exceeding  hot, 

And  our  king  had  laid  some  of  his  clothes  away). 

And,  when  the  nobleman  came  before  our  king. 

So  well  he  knew  his  courtesy. 
The  poor  man  followed  after  him, — 

Gave  a  nod  with  his  head,  and  a  beck  with  his  knee. 

"And  if  you  be  the  king,"  then  said  the  poor  manj 

"  As  I  can  hardly  think  you  be, 
This  goodly  fellow  that  brought  me  hither 

Seems  liker  to  be  a  king  than  ye." 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  375 

"  I  am  the  king,  and  the  king  indeed  : 

Let  me  thy  matter  understand." 
Then  the  poor  man  fell  down  on  his  knees. 
'  I  am  your  tenant  on  your  own  good  land  ; 

"  And  there  is  a  lawyer  dwells  me  by, 

A  fault  in  my  lease,  God  wot,  he  hath  found ; 

And  all  is  for  felling  of  five  ash- trees, 

To  build  me  a  house  in  my  own  good  ground. 

"  I  bade  him  let  me  and  my  ground  alone, 
And  cease  himself,  if  that  he  was  willing, 

And  pick  no  vantage  out  of  my  lease  ; 

He  seemed  a  good  fellow,  I  would  give  him  forty  shilling. 

"  Forty  shilling  nor  forty  pound 

Would  not  agree  this  lawyer  and  me, 
Without  I  w«uld  give  him  of  my  farm-ground. 

And  stand  to  his  good  courtesy. 

'*  I  said,  nay,  by  fay,  that  would  I  not  do. 

For  wife  and  children  would  make  mad  wark  ; 

And  he  would  let  me  and  my  ground  alone. 

He  seemed  a  good  fellow,  I  would  give  him  five  mark." 

"But  hast  thou  thy  lease  e'en  thee  upon. 

Or  canst  thou  show  to  me  thy  deed?" 
He  pulled  it  forth  of  his  bosom. 

And  says  :  "  Here,  my  liege,  if  you  can  read.'- 

"  What  if  I  cannot  ?  "  then  says  our  king  : 
"  Good  fellow,  to  me  what  hast  thou  to  say  ?  " 

"I  have  a  boy  at  home,  but  thirteen  year  old. 
Will  read  it  as  fale  gast  as  young ^  by  the  way." 

"  I  can  never  get  these  knots  loose,"  then  said  our  king  ; 

He  gave  it  a  gentleman  stood  him  hard  by. 
"  That's  a  proud  horse,"  then  said  the  poor  man, 

"  That  will  not  carry  his  own  proventy. 

"  And  ye  paid  me  five  shillings  rent,  as  I  do  ye, 
I  would  not  be  too  proud  to  loose  a  knot  : 

But  give  it  me  again,  and  I'll  loose  it  for  ye, 
So  that  in  my  rent  you'll  bate  me  a  groat." 

An  old  man  took  this  lease  in  his  hand, 

And  the  king's  majesty  stood  so. 
"  I'll  warrant  thee,  poor  man,  and  thy  ground, 

If  tjiou  had  fallen  five  ashes  moe." 

1  The  meaning  of  "  as  fale  gast  as  young"  is  unknown  to  me:  I  suspect  a 
misprint — or  rather  a  miswriting  in  the  MS.  printed  from.  "Will  read  it  as 
fast  as ffoiner hy  the  way"  would  seem  to  be  a  nalural  expression  ;  equivalent 
(^o  "will  read  it  as  fast  as  he  c.^n  run." 


376  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

"  Alas  to-day  !  "  then  said  the  poor  man. — 

"  Now  hold  your  tongue,  and  trouble  not  me." — 

"  He  that  troubles  me  this  day  with  this  matter 
Cares  neither  for  your  warrants,  you,  nor  me." 

"I'll  make  thee  attachment,  fool,"  he  says, 
"  That  all  that  sees  it  shall  take  thy  part. 

Until  he  have  paid  thee  a  hundred  pound, 
Thou'st  tie  him.  to  a  tree  that  he  cannot  start." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  poor  man  then. 

"About  this  matter  as  you  have  been  willing. 
And  seemed  to  do  the  best  you  can. 

With  all  my  heart  I'll  give  you  a  shilling." 

"  A  plague  on  thy  knave's  heart ! "  then  said  our  king  : 
"  This  money  on  my  skin  lies  so  cold  !  " 

He  flang  it  into  the  king's  bosom. 

Because  in  his  hand  he  would  it  notholJ. 

The  king  called  his  treasurer  ; 

Says  :  "  Count  me  down  a  liundred  pound — 
Since  he  hath  spent  money  by  the  way — 

To  bring  him  home  to  his  own  good  ground." 

When  the  hundred  pound  was  counted. 
To  receive  it  the  poor  man  was  willing. 

"  If  I  had  thought  you  had  had  so  much  silver  and  gold, 
You  should  not  have  had  my  good  shilling." 

The  lawyer  came  to  welcome  him 

When  he  came  home  upon  a  Sunday. 
"  Where  have  you  been,  neighbour?"  he  says  : 

"  Mcthinks  you  have  been  long  away." 

*'I  have  been  at  the  king,"  the  poor  man  said. — 
"  And  what  the  devil  didst  thou  do  there  ? 

Could  not  our  neighbours  have  agreed  us, 
But  thou  must  go  so  far  from  here  ?  " 

"  There  could  no  neighbours  have  agreed  thee  and  me. 
Nor  half  so  well  have  pleased  my  heart. 

Until  thou  have  paid  me  a  hundred  pound, 
I'll  tie  thee  to  a  tree,  thou  cannot  start." 

When  the  hundred  pound  was  counted, 

To  receive  it  the  poor  man  was  most  willing  : 

And  for  the  pains  in  the  law  he  had  taken 
He  would  not  give  him  again  one  shilling. 

God  send  all  lawyers  thus  well  served — 

Then  may  poor  farmers  live  in  ease  ! 
God  bless  and  save  our  noble  king. 

And  send  us  all  to  live  in  peace  I         .     ,  . 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  377 


SONGS  OF.SHEPHERDS. 

Songs  of  shepherds,  rustical  roundelays, 

Framed  on  fancies,  whistled  on  reeds, 
Songs  to  solace  young  nymphs  upon  holidays, 

Are  too  unworthy  for  wonderful  deeds. 
Phoebus  Ismenius,!  or  winged  Cyllenius 

His  lofty  genius,  may  seem  to  declare, 
In  verse  better  coined  and  voice  more  refined, 

How  stars  divined  once  hunted  the  hare. 

Stars  enamoured  with  pastimes  Olympical, 

Stars  and  planets  that  beautiful  shone, 
Would  no  longer  that  earthly  men  only  shall 

Swim  in  pleasures,  and  they  but  look  on. 
Round  about  horned  Lucina  they  swarmed ; 

And  her  informed  how  minded  they  were, 
Each  god  and  goddess,  to  take  human  bodies. 

As  lords  and  ladies,  to  follow  the  hare. 

Chaste  Diana  applauded  the  motion  ; 

And  pale  Proserpina  sate  in  her  place, — 
Lights  the  welkin,  and  governs  the  ocean, 

Whilst  she  conducted  her  nephews  in  chase. 
And,  by  her  example,  her  father,  to  trample 

The  cold  and  ample  earth,  leaveth  the  air ; 
Neptune,  the  water, — the  wine.  Liber  Pater, — 

And  Mars,  the  slaughter, — to  follow  the  hare. 

Light  young  Cupid  was  horsed  upon  Pegasus, 

Borrowed  of  Muses  with  kisses  and  prayers : 
Strong  Alcides,  upon  cloudy  Caucasus, 

Mounts  a  centaur  that  proudly  him  bears: 
Postilion  of  the  sky,  light-heeled  Mercury 

Makes  his  courser  fly  fleet  as  the  air : 
Yellow  Apollo  the  kennel  doth  follow. 

With  whoop  and  hallo  after  the  hare. 

Hymen  ushers  the  ladies  : — Astrcca, 

That  just  took  hands  with  Minerva  the  bold  ; 
Ceres  the  brown  with  the  bright  CythcraM, 

Thetis  the  wanton,  Bellona  the  old. 
Shamefaced  Aurora  with  subtle  Pandora, 

And  May  with  Flora,  did  company  bear. 
Juno  was  stated  too  high  to  be  mated. 

But  oil  she  hated  not  hunting  the  hare! 

1  One  copy  of  the  poem  gives  "Aeminiiis;"  another  gives  "ingenious." 
The  former  word  seems  to  be  megpingless,  and  the  litter  unmeaning.  I  sub- 
stitute, at  a  gues^,  "Ismenius,"  which  is  one  of  the  known  appellations  of 
Phoebus.     The  various  texts  of  this  composition  are  Tcry  inaccurate. 


378  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

Drowned  Narcissus,  from  his  metamorphosis 

Raised  with  Echo,  new  manhood  did  take : 
Snoring  Somnus  upstarted  in  Cimmeris — 

That  this  thousand  years  was  not  awake — 
To  see  clubfooted  old  Mulciber  booted, 

And  Pan  promoted  on  Chiron's  mare. 
Proud  Faunus  pouted,  proud  ^olus  shouted, 

And  Momus  flouted, — but  followed  the  hare. 

Deep  Melampus  and  cunning  Ichnobates, 

Nappy  and  Tigre  and  Harpy,  the  skies 
Rends  with  roaring ;  whilst  hunter-like  Hercules 

Sounds  the  plentiful  horn  to  their  cries. 
Till — with  varieties  to  solace  their  pieties — 

The  weary  Deities  reposed  them  where 
^\[e  shepherds  were  seated,  the  whilst  we  repeated 

What  we  conceited  of  their  hunting  the  hare. 

Young  Amyntas  supposed  the  gods  came  to  breathe. 

After  some  battle,  themselves  on  the  ground. 
Thyrsis  thought  the  stars  came  to  dwell  here  beneath, 

And  that  hereafter  tlie  world  would  go  round. 
Corydon  aged,  with  Phillis  engaged. 

Was  much  enraged  with  jealous  despair : 
But  fury  vaded,  and  he  was  persuaded, 

When  I  thus  applauded  their  hunting  the  hare : — 

"  Stars  but  shadows  were,  state  were  but  sorrow, — 

That  no  motion,  nor  that  no  delight : 
Joys  are  jovial,  delight  is  the  marrow 

Of  life,  and  action  the  apple  of  light. 
Pleasure  depends  upon  no  other  ends, 

But  freely  lends  to  each  virtue  a  share : 
Only  is  measure  the  jewel  of  treasure  : 

Of  pleasure  the  treasure  is  hunting  the  hare!" 

Four  broad  bowls  to  the  Olympical  rector 

That  Troy-borne  eagle  does  bring  on  his  knee  '?■ 
Jove  to  Phcebus  carouses  in  nectar, 

And  he  to  Hermes,  and  Hermes  to  me  : 
Wherewith  infused,  I  piped,  and  I  mused 

In  verse  unused  this  sport  to  declare. 
Oh  that  the  rouse  of  Jove  round  as  his  sphere  may  move ! 

Health  to  all  that  love  hunting  the  hare ! 

1  The  poet  seems  to  have  hesitated  here  between  introducing  the  eagle,  or 
Ganymede,  on  the  scene  :  and  a  very  jumbled  line  is  the  result. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  379 

ROBIN  GOODFELLOW.i 

From  Oberon,  in  fairy-land, 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadows  there. 
Mad  Robin  I,  at  his  command, 

Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 

What  revel  rout 

Is  kept  about, 
In  every  corner  where  I  go, 

I  will  o'ersee, 

And  merry  be. 
And  make  good  sport  with  ho  ho  ho ! 

More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  fly 

About  this  airy  welkin  soon, 
And  in  a  minute's  space  descry 

Each  thing  that's  done  below  the  moon. 
There's  not  a  hag 
Or  ghost  shall  wag. 
Or  cry,  'ware  goblins !  where  I  go, 
But  Robin  I 
Their  feats  will  spy. 
And  send  them  home  with  ho  ho  ho  ! 

Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meet, 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge  home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greet, 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roam : 
Through  woods,  through  lakes  ; 
Through  bogs,  through  brakes  ; 
Or  else,  unseen,  with  them  I  go, 

All  in  the  nick,  . 

To  play  some  trick, 
And  frolic  it  with  ho  ho  ho  ! 

Sometimes  I  meet  them  like  a  man, 

Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound  ; 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can. 
To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round. 
But,  if  to  ride 
My  back  they  stride. 
More  swift  than  wind  away  I  go, 
O'er  hedge  and  lands. 
Through  pools  and  ponds, 
I  hurry,  laughing  ho  ho  ho  ! 

When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be. 

With  possets  and  willi  junkets  fme. 
Unseen  of  all  the  company, 

I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine ; 

1  This  poem  has  sometimes  been  attributed  to  Ben  Jonson, 


3^°  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


Antl  to  make  sport 

I  puff  and  snort ; 
And  out  the  candles  I  do  biow : 

The  maids  I  kiss, 
..    They  shriek— "Who's  this?" 
I  answer  nought  but  ho  ho  ho  ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  pleascj 

At  midnight  I  card  up  their  wool  ; 
And,  while  they  sleep  and  take  their  ease, 
With  wheel  to  threads  their  flax  I  pull. 

I  grind  at  mill 

Their  malt  up  still ; 
I  dress  their  hemp  ;  I  spin  their  tow.; 

If  any  wake, 

And  would  me  take, 
I  wend  me,  laughing  ho  ho  ho ! 

When  house  or  hearth  doth  sluttish  lie, 
I  pinch  the  maidens  black  and  blue ; 
The  bed-clothes  from  the  bed  pull  I, 
And  lay  them  naked  all  to  view. 

'Twixt  sleep  and  wake, 

I  do  them  take. 
And  on  the  key-cold  floor  them  throw  ; 

If  out  they  cry, 

Then  forth  I  fly, 
And  loudly  laugh  out  ho  ho  ho ! 

When  any  need  to  borrow  aught. 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  require  ; 
And,  for  the  use,  demand  we  nought ; 
Our  own  is  all  we  do  desire. 

If  to  repay 

They  do  delay, 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go. 

And  night  by  night 

I  them  afi"right, 
With  pinchings,  dreams,  and  ho  ho  ho  \ 

When  lazy  queans  have  nought  to  do. 

But  study  how  to  cog  and  lie, 
To  make  debate  and  mischief  too 
'Twixt  one  another  secretly : 
I  mark  their  gloze, 
And  it  disclose 
To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so: 
When  I  have  done, 
I  get  me  gone, 
And  leave  them  scolding,  ho  ho  ho ! 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  S^r 


When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 

In  loop-holes,  where  the  vermin  creep 
Who  from  their  folds  and  houses  get 

Their  ducks  and  geese  and  lambs  and  sheep ; 

I  spy  the  gin, 

And  enter  in, 
And  seem  a  vermin  taken  so  ; 

But,  when  they  there 

Approach  me  near, 
I  leap  out  laughing  ho  ho  ho  ! 

By  wells  and  rills  and  meadows  green. 
We  nightly  dance  our  heyday  guise  ; 
And  to  our  fairy  king  and  queen, 
We  chant  our  moonlight  miustrelsies. 

When  larks  'gin  sing, 

Away  we  fling ; 
And  babes  new-born  steal  as  we  go  ; 

And  elf  in  bed 

We  leave  instead, 
And  wend  us  laughijjg  ho  ho  ho ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time,  have  I 

Thus  nightly  revelled  to  and  fro  ; 
And  for  my  pranks  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Robin  Goodfellow. 

Fiends,  ghosts,  and  sprites. 

Who  haunt  the  nights, 
The  hags  and  goblins,  do  me  know ; 

And  beldames  old 

My  feats  have  told, — 
So  Vale,  vale ;  ho  ho  ho! 


THE  SONG  QF  THE  BEGGAR. 

I  AM  a  rogue  and  a  stout  one, 

A  most  courageous  drinker  ; 
I  do  excel,  'tis  known  full  well, 
The  Ratter,  Tom,  and  Tinker. 

Still  do  I  cry,  "Good  your  worship, 
good  Sir, 
Bestow  one  small  denire.  Sir  ;" 
And  bravely  at  the  boozing-ken 
I'll  booze  it  all  in  beer,  Sir. 

If  a  bung  be  got  by  the  high  law, 
Then  straight  I  do  attend  them  ; 

For,  if  hue  and  cry  do  follow,  I 
A  wrong  way  soon  do  send  them. 
Still  do  I  cry,  (S;c. 


382  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

Ten  miles  unto  a  market 

I  run  to  meet  a  miser  ; 
Then  in  a  throng  I  nip  his  bung, 

And  the  party  ne'er  the  wiser. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

My  dainty  Dais,  my  Doxies, 
Whene'er  they  see  me  lacking, 

Without  delay,  poor  wretches,  they 
Will  set  their  duds  a-packing. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

I  pay  for  what  I  call  for, 
And  so  perforce  it  must  be  ; 

For  as  yet  I  can  not  know  the  man 
Nor  hostess  that  will  trust  me. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

If  any  give  me  lodging, 

A  courteous  knave  they  find  me  ; 

For  in  their  bed,  alive  or  dead, 
I  leave  some  lice  behind  me. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

-If  a  gentry  coe  be  coming, 

Then  straight  (it  is  our  fashion) 

My  leg  I  tie  close  to  my  thigh, 
To  move  him  to  compassion. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

My  doublet-sleeve  hangs  empty  ; 

And,  for  to  beg  the  bolder 
For  meat  and  drink,  mine  arm  I  shrink, 

Up  close  unto  my  shoulder. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

If  a  coach  I  hear  be  rumbling. 
To  my  crutches  then  I  hie  me  ; 

For,  being  lame,  it  is  a  shame 
Such  gallants  should  deny  me. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

With  a  seeming  bursten  belly, 
I  look  like  one  half  dead,  Sir  ; 

Or  else  I  beg  with  a  wooden  leg, 
And  a  night-cap  on  my  head,  Sir. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

In  winter-time  stark  naked 

I  come  into  some  city  ; 
Then  every  man  that  spare  them  can 

Will  give  me  clothes  for  pity. 
Still  do  I  crv,  &c. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  383 

If  from  out  the  Low-country 

I  hear  a  captain's  name,  Sir, 
Then  straight  I  swear  I  have  been  there, 

And  so  in  fight  came  lame,  Sir. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

My  dog  in  a  string  doth  lead  me, 

When  in  the  town  I  go.  Sir  ; 
For  to  the  blind  all  men  are  kind, 

And  will  their  alms  bestow.  Sir. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

With  switches  sometimes  stand  I 

In  the  bottom  of  a  hill.  Sir  ; 
There  those  men  which  do  want  a  switch 

Some  money  give  me  still,  Sir. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

"  Come  buy,  come  buy,  a  horn-book  ! 

Who  buys  my  pins  or  needles?" 
In  cities  I  these  things  do  cry 

Oft-times  to  scape  the  beadles. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

In  Paul's  church  by  a  pillar 

Sometimes  you  see  me  stand,  Sir, 
With  a  writ  that  shows  what  care  and  woes 

1  passed  by  sea  and  land,  Sir. 
Still  do  I  cry,  &c. 

Now  blame  me  not  for  boasting 
And  bragging  thus  alone.  Sir  ; 
For  myself  I  will  be  praising  still. 
For  neighbours  have  I  none.  Sir. 
Which  makes  me  cry,  "  Good  your 
worship,  good  Sir, 
Bestow  one  small  denire.  Sir  ;" 
And  bravely  then  at  the  boozing-kcn 
I'll  booze  it  all  in  beer.  Sir. 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT  FOR  SHREWS. 

Who  marrieth  a  wife  upon  a  Monday, 

If  she  will  not  be  good  upon  a  Tuesdaj'', 

Let  him  go  to  the  wood  upon  a  Wednesday, 

And  cut  him  a  cudgel  upon  the  Thursday, 

And  pay  her  soundly  upon  a  Friday  : 

And  she  rnend  not,  the  divil  take  her  a'  Saturday  : 

Then  he  may  eat  his  meat  in  peace  on  the  Sunday. 


384  ^XJirxoJv^'  winters. 


LINTIS  ON  A  PRINTING  OFFICE. 

The  world's  a  printing-house     Our  words,  our  thoughts, 
Our  deeds,  are  characters  of  several  sizes. 

Each  soul  is  a  compos'tor,  of  whose  faults 
The  Levites  are  correctors  ;  Heaven  re^nses. 

Death  is  the  common -press  ;  from  whence  being  driven, 

"We're  gathered  sheet  by  sheet,  and  bound  for  heaven. 


THE  MAY-POLE. 

Come,  lasses  and  lads,  take  leave  of  your  dads. 

And  away  to  the  may-pole  hie  ; 
For  every  he  has  got  him  a  she, 

And  the  minstrers  standing  by ; 
For  Willie  has  gotten  his  Jill, 

And  Johnny  has  got  his  Joan, 
To  jig  it,  jig  it,  jig  it, 

Jig  it  up  and  down. 

"  Strike  up,"  says  Wat.     "  Agreed,"  says  Kate, 

"And  1  prithee,  fiddler,  play." 
"Content,"  sa}-s  Hodge,  and  so  says  Madge, 

For  this  is  a  holiday. 
Then  es'ery  man  did  put 

His  hat  off  to  his  lass. 
And  ever}'  girl  did  curchy, 

Curchy,  curchy  on  the  grass. 

"  Begin,"  says  Hal.     "  Aye,  aye,'*  says  MaU, 

"  We'll  lead  up  Packington's  Faund." 
*'  No,  no,"  says  XoU,  and  so  says  Doll, 

"  We'll  first  have  Sdlaigers  Hound." 
Then  every  man  began 

To  foot  it  round  about ; 
And  every  girl  did  jet  it. 

Jet  it,  jet  it,  in  and  out. 

"  You're  out,"  says  Dick.     "  'Tis  a  He,"  says  Nick  • 

"  The  fiddler  played  it  false." 
"  'Tis  true,"  says  Hugh,  and  so  says  Sue, 

And  so  says  nimble  Alice. 
The  fiddler  then  began 

To  play  the  tune  again  ; 
And  every  girl  did  trip  it,  trip  it. 

Trip  it  to  the  men. 


uyK-xoivy  writers  ^ss 


o°-3 


'•  L'it's  k;;;,     ;i. s  '--.t^     "  Content,''  saj3  2san, 

"  How  many  ?  •'  Why  three,"  says  Matt, 

"For  that's  l  .— . .  ..=." 

But  they,  instead  of  three. 

Did  give    '         "  -!f  a  score ; 
And  thev  ir.  ?  gave  'em,  gave  'em. 

Gave  "em  as  :  re. 

Then  after  ■  - :  to  a  bower. 

And  play.  ^es ; 

And  kisses,  too  ; — _:  were  due. 

The  lasses  kept  the  ;.i-.^i. 
The  girls  did  then  begin 

To  quarrel  with  :"' 
And  bid  'em  take  tl-  .    l::ck. 

And  give  them  their  own  again. 

Yet  there  they  sate,  imrll  it  was  late. 

And  tired  the  fiddler  quite. 
With  singing  and  playing,  without  any  paying, 

From  morning  unto  night. 
They  told  the  fiddler  then 

They'd  pay  him  for  his  play  : 
And  each  a  two-pence,  two-pence^ 

Gave  him/  and  went  away. 

'  ■'  Good  night,"'  says  Harry  ;  "  Good  night,"  says  Mary ; 

"Good  night,"  says  Dolly  to  John  j 
"  Good  night,"  says  Sue  ;  "  Good  night,"  saj-s  Hugh  ; 

"Good  night,"  says  every  one. 
Some  walked,  and  some  did  nm. 

Some  loitered  on  the  way  ; 
And  bound  themselves  with  love-knots,  love-knots. 

To  meet  the  next  holiday. 


THERE  WAS  AX  OLD  MAX  CAME  0^'ER  THE  LEA- 

There  was  an  old  man  came  over  the  Lea  ; 
Ha-ha-ha-ha  !  but  I  won't  have  he. 

He  came  over  the  Lea, 

A-courting  to  me. 
With  his  grey  b^rd  newly  shaven. 

My  mother  she  bid  me  open  the  door  : 
I  opened  the  door. 
And  he  fell  on  the  floor. 

1  Some  copies  say  "Pan,"  and  thLs  reading  has  r.ot  been  without  its  defender. 
I  can  hardly  suppose  "•Pan"  to  be  right;  but  surely  it  ought  to  be  a  male 
name  of  some  sort— probably  "Daa." 

2  E 


386    ,  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. - 

My  mother  she  bid  me  set  him  a  stool : 
I  set  him  a  stool, 
And  he  looked  like  a  fool. 

My  mother  she  bid  me  give  him  some  beer  ; 
I  gave  him  some  beer, 
And  he  thought  it  good  cheer. 

My  mother  she  bid  me  cut  him  some  bread  ; 
I  cut  him  some  bread, 
And  I  threw't  at  his  head. 

My  mother  she  bid  me  light  him  to  bed  : 
I  lit  him  to  bed. 
And  wished  he  were  dead. 

My  mother  she  bid  me  tell  him  to  rise : 
I  told  him  to  rise, 
And  he  opened  his  eyes. 

My  mother  she  bid  me  take  him  to  church : 
I  took  him  to  church, 
And  left  him  in  the  lurch, 
.  With  his  grey  beard  newly  shaven. 


THE  NEW  LITANY. 

From  an  extempore  prayer  and  a  godly  ditty, 
From  the  churlish  government  of  a  city. 
From  the  power  of  a  country  committee. 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  the  Turk,  the  Pope,  and  the  Scottish  nation. 
From  being  governed  by  proclamation, 
And  from  an  old  Protestant,  quite  out  of  fashion, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  meddling  with  those  that  are  out  of  our  reaches. 
From  a  fighting  priest,  and  a  soldier  that  preaches. 
From  an  ignoramus  that  writes,  and  a  woman  that  teaches, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  the  doctrine  of  deposing  of  a  king, 
From  the  Directory^  or  any  such  thing. 
From  a  fine  new  marriage  without  a  ring, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

i  The  Directory  for  the  Public  Worship  of  God,  ordered  by  the  Assembly  of 
Divines  at  Westminster  in  1644,  to  supersede  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  387 

From  a  city  that  yields  at  the  first  summons, 
From  plundering  goods,  either  man  or  woman's, 
Or  having  to  do  with  the  House  of  Commons, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  a  stumbling  horse  that  tumbles  o'er  and  o'er, 
From  ushering  a  lady,  or  walking  before. 
From  an  English-Irish  rebel,  newly  come  o'er,^ 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  compounding,  or  hanging  in  a  silken  halter,    , 
From  oaths  and  covenants,  and  being  pounded  in  a  mortar, 
From  contributions,  or  free-quarter. 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  mouldy  bread  and  musty  beer, 
From  a  holiday's  fast,  and  a  Friday's  cheer, 
From  a  brotherhood,  and  a  she-cavalier. 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  Nick  Neuter,  for  you  and  for  you, 
From  Thomas  Turn-coat  that  will  never  prove  true. 
From  a  reverend  Rabbi  that's  worse  than  a  Jew, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  a  country  justice  that  still  looks  big, 
From  swallowing  up  the  Italian  fig, 
Or  learning  of  the  Scottish  jig. 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  being  taken  in  a  disguise, 
From  believing  of  the  printed  lies. 
From  the  Devil  and  from  the  Excise," 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  a  broken  pate  with  a  pint  pot 
For  fighting  for  I  know  not  what, 
And  from  a  friend  as  false  as  a  Scot, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  one  that  speaks  no  sense,  yet  talks  all  that  he  can,) 
From  an  old  woman  and  a  Parliament  man, 
From  an  Anabaptist  and  a  Presbyter  man, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  Irish  rebels  and  Welsh  hubub-men. 
From  Independents  and  their  tulj-men, 
From  sheriffs'  bailiffs  and  their  club-men. 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

-         — -*. 

1  The  Earl  of  Thomond. 

2  The  Excise  was  first  introduced  by  the  Long  Parliaraci>t. 


388  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

From  one  that  cares  not  what  he  saith, 
Fi-om  trusting  one  that  never  pay'th, 
From  a  private  preacher  and  a  pubhc  faith, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  a  vapouring  horse  and  a  Roundhead  in  buff, 
From  roaring  Jack  Cavee,  with  money  little  enough, 
From  beads  and  such  idolatrous  stuff, 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  holy  days,  and  all  that's  holy, 

From  may-poles  and  fiddlers,  and  all  that's  jolly. 

From  Latin  or  learning,  since  that  is  folly. 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

And  now  to  make  an  end  of  all, 
I  wish  the  Roundheads  had  a  fall, 
Or  else  were  hanged  in  Goldsmiths'  HallJ 
Amen. 

Benedicat  Dominus. 


THE  CLEAN  CONTKARY  WAY ; 

OR,  COLONEL  VENNe's  ENCOURAGEMENT  TO  HIS  SOLDIERS. 

Fight  on,  brave  soldiers,  for  the  cause, — 

••    Fear  not  the  Cavaliers  ; 

Their  threatenings  are  as  senseless  as 

Our  jealousies  and  fears, 
'Tis  you  must  perfect  this  great  work, 

And  all  malignants  slay  ; 
You  must  bring  back  the  King  again 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

'Tis  for  religion  that  you  fight, 

And  for  the  kingdom's  good, 
By  robbing  churches,  plundering  them. 

And  shedding  guiltless  blood. 
Down  with  the  orthodoxal  train  ; 

All  loyal  subjects  slay  ; 
When  these  are  gone,  we  shall  be  blest 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

When  Charles  we  have  made  banki-upt. 

Of  power  and  crown  bereft  him,  ~ 
And  all  his  loyal  subjects  slain, 

And  none  but  rebels  left  him  ;  '' 
When  we  have  beggared  all  the  land. 

And  sent  our  trunks  away, 
We'll  make  him  then  a  glorious  prince 

The  clean  contrary  way. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  3^9 

'Tis  to  preserve  his  Majesty 

That  we  against  him  fight, 
Nor  ever  are  we  beaten  back, 

Because  our  cause  is  right  : 
If  any  make  a  scruple  at 

Our  Declarations,  say, — 
"  Who  fight  for  us  fight  for  the  King  " 

j(The  clean  contrary  way). 

At  Keinton,  Brainsford,  Plymouth,  York, 

And  divers  places  more. 
What  victories  v/e  saints  obtain. 

The  like  ne'er  seen  before  ! 
How  often  we  Prince  Rupert  killed. 

And  bravely  won  the  day  ! 
The  wicked  Cavaliers  did  run 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

The  true  religion  we  maintain  ; 

The  kingdom's  peace  and  plenty  ; 
The  privilege  of  Parliament, 

Not  known  to  one  and  twenty  ; 
The  ancient  fundamental  laws  ; 

And  teach  men  to  obey 
Their  lawful  sovereign  ; — and  all  these 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

We  subjects'  liberties  preserve 

By  imprisonment  and  plunder, 
And  do  enrich  ourselves  and  state 

By  keeping  th'  wicked  under.    H 
We  must  preserve  mechanics  now 

To  kctorize  and  pray  ; 
By  them  the  gospel  is  advanced 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

And,  though  the  King  be  much  misled 

By  that  malignant  crew, 
He'll  find  us  honest  at  the  last. 

Give  all  of  us  our  due. 
For  we  do  wisely  plot,  and  plot 

Rebellion  to  allay  ; 
He  sees  we  stand  for  peace  and  truth 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

The  public  faith  shall  save  our  souls 

And  our  good  works  together  ; 
And  ships  shall  save  our  lives,  that  stay 

Only  for  wind  and  weather : 
But,  when  our  faith  and  works  fall  down 

And  all  our  hopes  decay. 
Our  acts  will  bear  us  up  to  heaven 

The  clean  contrary  way. 


390  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

THE  ANARCHY ; 

OR,  THE  BLEST  REFORM A.TION  SINCE  1640. 

Now  that,  thanks  to  the  powers  below, 

We  have  e'en  done  out  our  do, 
Tlie  mitre  is  down,  and  so  is  the  crown, 

And  with  tliem  tlie  coronet  too  ; 
Come  clowns,  and  come  boys,  come  hober-de-hoys, 

Come  females  of  each  degree  ; 
Stretch  your  throats,  bring  in  your  votes, 

And  make  good  the  anarchy. 
And  "thus  it  shall  go,"  says  Alice  ; 

"  Nay,  thus  it  shall  go,"  says  Amy  ; 
"Nay,  thus  it  shall  go,"  says  Taffie,  "  I  trow ;'.' 

"  Nay,  thus  it  shall  go,"  says  Jamy. 

Ah !  but  the  truth,  good  people  all, 

The  truth  is  such  a  thing  ; 
For  it  would  undo  both  Church  and  State  too, 

And  cut  the  throat  of  our  King. 
Yet  not  the  spirit,  nor  the  new  light, 

Can  make  this  point  so  clear 
But  thou  must  bring  out,  thou  deified  rout. 

What  thing  this  truth  is,  and  where. 
Speak  Abraham,  speak  Kester,  speak  Judith,  speak  Hester, 

Speak  tag  and  rag,  short  coat  and  long  ; 
Truth's  the  spell  made  us  rebel, 

And  murder  and  plunder,  ding-dong. 
"Sure  I  have  the  truth,"  says  Numph  ; 

"  Nay,  I  ha'  the  truth,"  says  Clemme  ; 
"  Nay,  I  ha'  the  truth,"  says  Reverend  Ruth  ; 

"Nay,  I  ha'  the  truth,"  says  Nem. 

Well,  let  the  truth  be  where  it  will. 

We're  sure  all  else  is  ours  ; 
Yet  these  divisions  in  our  religions 

May  chance  abate  our  powers. 
Then  let's  agree  on  some  one  way, 

It  skills  not  much  how  true  ; 
Take  Prynne  and  his  clubs,  or  Say  and  his  tubs, 

Or  any  sect  old  or  new. 
The  devil's  i'  the  pack  if  choice  you  can  lack, — ■ 

We're  fourscore  religions  strong  ; 
Take  your  choice,  the  major  voice 

Shall  carry  it,  right  or  wrong. 
"  Then  we'll  bS  of  this,"  says  Megg  , 

"  Nay,  we'll  be  of  that,"  says  Tibb  ; 
"  Nay,  we'll  be  of  all,"  says  pitiful  Paul  ; 

"Nay,  we'll  be  of  none,"  says  Gibb. 


UNKNO  WN  WRITERS.  39 1 


Neighbours  and  fnends,  pray  one  word  more, 

There's  something  yet  behind  ; 
And,  wise  though  you  be,  you  do  not  well  see 

In  which  door  sits  tlie  wind. 
As  for  religion  (to  ^eak  right, 

And  in  the  House's  sense), 
The  matter  is  all  one  to  have  any  or  none, 

If  'twere  not  for  the  pretence. 
But  herein  doth  lurk  the  key  of  the  work,— 

Even  to  dispose  of  the  crown 
Dexteriously,  and,  as  may  be. 

For  our  behoof  and  your  own. 
"  Then  let's  ha'  king  Charles,"  says  George  ; 

"Nay,  let's  have  his  son,"  says  Hugh  ; 
"  Nay,  let's  have  none,"  says  Jabbering  Joan  ; 

"Nay,  let's  be  all  kings,"  says  Prue. 

Oh  we  shall  have  (if  we  go  on 

In  plunder,  excise,  and  blood)  ' 
But  few  folk  and  poor  to  domineer  o'er, 

And  that  will  not  be  so  good. 
Then  let's  resolve  on  some  new  way, 

Some  new  and  happy  course  ; 
The  country's  grown  sad,  the  city  horn-mad. 

And  both  the  Houses  are  worse. 
The  synod  hath  writ,  the  general  hath  spit. 

And  both  to  like  purposes  too  ; 
Religion,  laws,  the  truth,  the  cause. 

Are  talked  of,  but  nothing  we  do. 
•'Come,  come,  shall's  ha'  peace?"  says  Nell ; 

"No,  no,  but  we  won't,"  says  Madge  ; 
"But  I  say  we  will,"  says  fiery-faced  Phil  ; 

"We  will  and  we  won't,"  says  Hodge.  , 

Thus  from  the  rout  who  can  expect 

Aught  but  division? 
Since  unity  doth  with  monarchy 

Begin  and  end  in  one. 
If  then,  when  all  is  thought  their  own, 

And  lies  at  their  behest. 
These  popular  pates  reap  nought  but  debates 

From  that  many  round-headed  beast  ; 
Come,  Royalists,  then,  do  you  play  the  men, 

And,  Cavaliers,  give  the  word  ; 
Now  let  us  see  at  what  you  would  be, 

And  whether  you  can  accord. 
"  A  health  to  King  Charles,"  says  Tom  ; 

"  Up  with  it,"  says  Ralph,  like  a  man  ; 
'^  God  bless  him,"  says  Doll;  "and  raise  him,"  says  Moll; 

"  And  send  him  liis  own  !  "  says  Nan> 


392  UNKNOWN  WRITER'S. 

Now  for  these  prudent  things  that  sit 

Without  end  and  to  none, 
And  their  committees,  that  towns  and  cities 

Fill  with  confusion  ; 
For  the  bold  troops  of  sectaries, 

The  Scots  and  their  partakers, 
Our  new  British  states.  Colonel  Burges  and  his  mates. 

The  covenant  and  its  makers  ; 
For  all  these  we'll  pray,  and  in  such  a  way 

As,  if  it  might  granted  be, 
Jack  and  Gill,  Matt  and  Will, 

And  all  the  world  would  agree. 
"  A  plague  take  them  all  ! "  says  Bess  ; 

"  And  a  pestilence  too  !"  says  Margery  : 
"  The  devil  1"  says  Dick  ;  "  And  his  dam,  too  !"  says  Nick  j 

"Amen  !  and  Amen  !"  say  I. 


JOAN'S  ALE  WAS  NEW. 

There  were  six  jovial  tradesmen, 

And  they  all  set  down  to  drinking, 

For  they  were  a  jovial  crew  ; 
They  sat  themselves  down  to  be  merry, 
And  they  called  for  a  bottle  of  sherry. 
"You're  welcome  as  the  hills,"  says  Nolly, 

"  While  Joan's  ale  is  new,  brave  boys, 

While  Joan's  ale  is  new." 

The  first  that  came  in  was  a  soldier, 
With  his  firelock  over  his  shoulder  ; 
Sure  no  one  could  be  bolder, 

And  a  long  broad-sword  he  drew  : 
He  swore  he  would  fight  for  England's  ground, 
Before  the  nation  should  be  run  down  ; 
lie  boldly  drank  their  healths  all  round, 

While  Joan's  ale  was  new. 

The  next  that  came  in  was  a  hatter. 
Sure  no  one  could  be  blacker, 
And  he  began  to  chatter, 

Among  the  jovial  crew  : 
He  threw  his  hat  upon  the  ground, 
And  swore  every  man  should  spend  his  pound. 
And  boldly  drank  their  healths  all  round, 

While  Joan's  ale  was  new. 

The  next  that  came  in  was  a  dyer. 
And  he  sat  himself  down  by  the  fire, 
For  it  was  his  heart's  desire 
To  drink  with  the  jovial  crew  : 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  393 

He  told  the  landlord  to  his  face 
The  chimney-corner  should  be  his  place, 
And  there  he'd  sit  and  dye  his  face, 
While  Joan's  ale  was  new. 

The  next  that  came  in  was  a  tinker, 
And  he  was  no  small-beer  drinker, 
And  he  was  no  strong-ale  shrinker, 

Among  the  jovial  crew  : 
For  his  brass  nails  were  made  of  metal, 
And  he  swore  he'd  go  and  mend  a  kettle. 
Good  heart  !  how  his  hammer  and  nails  did  rattle 

When  Joan's  ale  was  new  ! 

The  next  that  came  in  was  a  tailor, 
With  his  bodkin,  shears,  and  thimble  ; 
He  swore  he  would  be  nimble 

Among  the  jovial  crew  : 
They  sat  and  they  called  for  ale  so  stout, 
Till  the  poor  tailor  was  almost  broke, 
And  was  forced  to  go  and  pawn  his  coat, 

While  Joan's  ale  was  new. 

The  next  that  came  in  was  a  ragman. 
With  his  rag-bag  over  his  shoulder  ; 
Sure  no  one  could  be  bolder 

Among  the  jovial  crew. 
They  sat  and  called  for  pots  and  glasses, 
Till  they  were  all  as  drunk  as  asses. 
And  burnt  the  old  ragman's  bag  to  ashes, 

While  Joan's  ale  was  new. 


THE  REFORMATION.! 

Tell  me  not  of  Lords  and  laws. 

Rules  or  reformation ; 
All  that's  done  not  worth  two  straws 

To  the  welfare  of  the  nation ; 
If  men  in  power  do  rant  it  still, 
And  give  no  reason  but  their  will 

For  all  their  domination; 
Or,  if  they  do  an  act  that's  just, 
'Tis  not  because  they  would,  but  must, 
To  gratify  some  party's  lust. 

All  our  expense  of  blood  and  purse 
Has  yet  produced  no  profit; 

Men  are  still  as  bad  or  worse, 
And  will,  whate'er  comes  of  it. 


J  This  has  been  ascribed  to  Butler-  I  believe,  without  any  reason. 


394  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

We've  shuffled  out  and  shuffled  in 
The  person,  but  retain  the  sin, 

To  make  our  game  the  surer  ; 
Yet,  spite  of  all  our  pains  and  skill, 
The  knaves  all  in  the  pack  are  still, 
And  ever  were,  and  ever  will, 

Though  somelhuig  now  demurer. 

And  it  can  never  be  but  so, 

Since  knaves  are  still  in  fashion; 
Men  of  souls  so  base  and  low, 

Mere  bigots  of  the  nation ; 
Whose  designs  are  power  and  wealth, 
At  which,  by  rapine,  power,  and  stealth, 

Audaciously  they  vent're  ye 
Tliey  lay  their  consciences  aside. 
And  turn  with  every  wind  and  tide, 
Puffed  on  by  ignorance  and  pride. 

And  all  to  look  like  gentry. 

Crimes  are  not  punished  'cause  they're  crimes. 

But  'cause  they're  low  and  little. 
Mean  men  for  mean  faults  in  these  times 

Make  satisfaction  to  a  tittle; 
While  those  in  oflice  and  in  power 
Boldly  the  underlings  devour, — 

Our  cobweb  laws  can't  hold  'em  ; 
They  sell  for  many  a  thousand  crown 
Things  which  were  never  yet  their  own  ; 
And  this  is  law  and  custom  grown, 

'Cause  those  do  judge  who  sold  'em. 

Brothers  still  with  brothers  brawl, 

And  for  trifles  sue  'em  ; 
For  two  pronouns  that  spoil  all, 

Contentious  meiwi  and  tuum. 
The  wary  lawyer  buys  and  builds. 
While  the  client  sells  his  fields 

To  sacrifice  his  fury; 
And,  when  he  thinks  to  obtain  his  right, 
He's  baffled  off  or  beaten  quite 
By  the  judges  will  or  lawyer's  sleight. 

Or  ignorance  of  the  jury. 

See  the  tradesman  how  he  thrives 

With  perpetual  trouble  : 
How  he  cheats  and  how  he  strives, 

His  estate  to  enlarge  and  double  ; 
Extort,  oppress,  grind,  and  encroach, 
To  be  a  squire  and  keep  a  coach. 

And  to  be  one  o'  the  quorum, 


UNKNOWN'  WRITERS.  395 

Who  may  with  his  brother  worships  sit, 
And  judge,  without  law,  fear,  or  wit, 
Poor  petty  thieves  that  nothing  get, 
And  yet  are  brought  before  'em. 

And  his  way  to  get  all  this 

Is  mere  dissimulation  ; 
No  factious  lecture  does  he  miss, 

And  scape  no  schism  that's  in  fashion : 
But,  with  short  hair  and  shining  shoes, 
He  with  two  pens  and  note-book  goes, 

And  winks  and  writes  at  random; 
Thence  with  short  meal  and  tedious  grace, 
In  a  loud  tone  and  public  place. 
Sings  wisdom's  hymns,  that  trot  and  pace 

As  if  Goliah  scanned  'em. 

But,  when  Death  begins  his  threats, 

And  his  conscience  struggles 
To  call  to  mind  his  former  cheats, 

Then  at  Heaven  he  turns  and  juggles  : 
And  out  of  all's  ill-gotten  store 
He  gives  a  dribbling  to  the  poor, 

An  hospital  or  school-house  ; 
And  the  suborned  priest  for  his  hire 
Quite  frees  him  from  the  infernal  fire. 
And  places  him  in  the  angels'  choir : 

Thus  these  Jack-puddings  fool  us  ! 

All  he  gets  by  his  pains,  i'  the  close. 

Is  that  he  died  worth  so  much ; 
Which  he  on  his  doubtful  seed  bestows, 

That  neither  care  nor  know  much. 
Then  fortune's  favourite,  his  heir. 
Bred  base  and  ignorant  and  bare, 

Is  blown  up  like  a  bubble  : 
Who,  wondering  at's  own  sudden  rise. 
By  pride,  simplicity,  and  vice, 
Falls  to  his  sports,  drink,  drabs,  and  dice, 

And  makes  all  fly  like  stubble. 

And  the  Church,  the  other  twin 

Whose  mad  zeal  enraged  us, 
Is  not  puiified  a  pin 

By  all  those  broils  in  which  they  engaged  us. 
We  our  wives  turned  out  of  doors. 
And  took  in  concubines  and  whores, 

To  make  an  alteration. 
Our  pulpitors  arc  proud  and  l)old; 
They  their  own  wills  and  factions  hold, 
And  sell  salvation  still  for  gold  ; — 

And  here's  our  rr/ornialion  ! 


396  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


'Tis  a  madness  then  to  make 

Thriving  our  employment, 
And  lucre  love  for  lucre's  sake, 

Since  we've  possession,  not  enjoyment. 
Let  the  times  run  on  their  course, 
For  oppression  makes  them  worse, — 

We  ne'er  shall  better  find  'em  ; 
Let  grandees  wealth  and  power  engross, 
And  honour  too, — while  we  sit  close. 
And  laugh,  and  take  our  plenteous  dose 

Of  sack,  and  never  mind  'em. 


THE  SALE  OF  REBELLION'S  HOUSEHOLD  STUFF. 

Rebellion  hath  broken  up  house, 

And  hath  left  me  old  lumber  to  sell ; 
Come  hither  and  take  your  choice, 

I'll  promise  to  use  you  well. 
Will  you  buy  the  old  Speaker's  chair  ? 
Which  was  warm  and  easy  to  sit  in, 
And  oft  has  been  cleaned,  I  declare, 
Whereas  it  was  fouler  than  fitting. 
Says  old  Simon  the  King, 
Says  old  Simon  the  King, 
With  his  ale-dropped  hose,  and  his  Malmsey  nose. 
Sing,  hey  ding,  ding-a-ding,  ding. 

Will  you  buy  any  bacon  flitches, 

The  fattest  that  ever  were  spent  ? 
They're  the  sides  of  the  old  committees 

Fed  up  in  the  Long  Parliament. 
Here's  a  pair  of  bellows  and  tongs, 

And  for  a  small  matter  I'll  sell  ye  'em  ; 
They  are  made  of  the  presbyter's  lungs, 

To  blow  up  the  coals  of  rebellion. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

I  had  thought  to  have  given  them  once 

To  some  blacksmith  for  his  forge  ; 
But,  now  I  have  considered  on't, 

They  are  consecrate  to  the  Church. 
So  I'll  give  them  unto  some  choir  ; 

They  will  make  the  big  organs  roar, 
And  the  little  pipes  to  squeak  higher 

Than  ever  they  could  before. 
Says  old  Simon,  cic. 

Here's  a  couple  of  stools  for  sale. 
One's  square,  and  t'other  is  round ; 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  397 

Betwixt  them  both,  the  tail 

Of  the  Rump  fell  down  to  the  ground. 
Will  you  buy  the  State's  council-table, 

Which  was  made  of  the  good  wain-Scot  ? 
The  frame  was  a  tottering  Babel, 

To  uphold  th'  Independent  plot. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Here's  the  besom  of  Reformation, 

Which  should  have  made  clean  the  floor  j 
But  it  swept  the  wealth  out  of  the  nation, 

And  left  us  dirt  good  store. 
Will  you  buy  the  State's  spinning-wheel, 

Which  spun  for  the  roper's  trade  ? 
But  better  it  had  stood  still, 

For  now  it  has  spun  a  fair  thread. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Here's  a  glyster-pipe  well  tried. 

Which  was  made  of  a  butcher's  stump, 
And  has  been  safely  applied 

To  cure  the  colds  of  the  Rump. 
Here's  a  lump  of  pilgrim's-salve. 

Which  once  was  a  justice  of  peace 
Who  Noll  and  the  devil  did  serve, — 

But  now  it  is  come  to  this  ! 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Here's  a  roll  of  the  State's  tobacco, 

If  any  good  fellow  will  take  it ; 
No  Virginia  had  e'er  such  a  smack-o, 

And  I'll  tell  you  how  they  did  make  it  : 
'Tis  th'  Engagement  and  Covenant  cooked 

Up  with  the  abjuration-oath. 
And  many  of  them  that  have  took't 

Complain  it  was  foul  in  the  mouth. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Yet  the  ashes  may  happily  serve 

To  cure  the  scab  of  the  nation, 
Whene'er't  has  an  itch  to  swerve 

To  rebellion  by  innovation. 
A  lantern  here  is  to  be  bought ; 

The  like  was  scarce  ever  gotten. 
For  many  plots  it  has  found  out 

Before  they  ever  weie  thougiit  on. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Will  you  buy  the  Rump's  great  saddle, 

With  which  it  jockeyed  the  nation? 
And  here  is  the  bit  and  tlie  bridle. 

And  curb  of  dissimulation  j 


398  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


Ami   here's  the  Irunk-hosc  of  the  Rump, 
And  their  fan-  dissembling  cloak ; 

And  a  Presbyterian  jump, 
With  an  Independent  smock. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Will  you  buy  a  conscience  oft  turned, 

Which  served  the  High  Court  of  Justice, 
And  stretched  until  England  it  mourned? — 

But  hell  will  buy  that,  if  the  worst  is. 
Here's  Joan  Cromwell's  kitchen-stuff  tub, 

Wherein  is  the  fat  of  the  Rumpers, 
With  which  old  Noll's  horns  she  did  rub 

When  he  was  got  drunk  with  false  bumpers. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

Here's  the  purse  of  the  public  faith ; 

Here's  the  model  of  tlie  Sequestration, 
When  tlie  old  wives  upon  their  good  troth 

Lent  thimbles  to  ruin  the  nation. 
Here's  Dick  Cromwell's  Protectorship, 

And  here  are  Lambert's  commissions, 
And  here  is  Hugh  Peters  his  scrip, 

Crammed  with  tumultuous  petitions. 
-      Says  old  Simon,  &c. 

And  here  are  old  Noll's  brewing-vessels, 

And  here  are  his  dray  and  his  ilings  ; 
Here  are  Ilewson's^  awl  and  his  bristles. 

With  diverse  other  odd  things. 
And  what  is  the  price  doth  belong 

To  all  these  matters  before  ye  ? 
I'll  sell  them  all  for  an  old  song, 

And  so  I  do  end  my  story. 
Says  old  Simon,  &c. 


THE  DEVIL'S^PROGRESS  ON  EARTH;  OR,  HUGCLE  DUGGLE.2 

Friar  Bacon  walks  again. 

And  Doctor  Faustus  too ; 
Proserpine  and  Pluto, 

And  many  a  goblin  crew. 
Witli  that,  a  merry  devil 

To  make  tlie  airing  vowed; 
Huggle  Duggle,  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

The  Devil  laughed  aloud. 


-  Colonel  Hcwson,  originally  .1  shoemaker. 

■•^  This  savage  stroke  of  grotesque  humour  was  no  doubt  the  model  for  the 
f"?^.?  °'"  I'l^c  sul^cct  written  by  Southey  and  Coleridge,  and  thence  for  those 
of  bhcUcy  and  Byron, 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  399 

Why  think  you  that  he  laughed  ? 

Forsooth  he  came  from  court ; 
And  there  amongst  the  gallants 

Had  spied  such  pretty  sport  ; 
There  was  such  cunning  juggling, 

And  ladies  gone  so  proud ; 
Iluggle  Duggle,  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

The  Devil  laughed  aloud. 

With  that  into  the  city 

Away  the  Devil  went  ; 
To  view  the  merchants'  dealings 

It  was  his  full  intent  : 
And  there  along  the  brave  Exchange 

He  crept  into  the  crowd. 
Huggle  Duggle,  Ha!  ha!  ba! 

The  Devil  laughed  aloud. 

He  went  into  the  city, 

To  see  all  there  was  well. 
Their  scales  were  false,  their  weights  were  light. 

Their  conscience  fit  for  hell ; 
And  Pandars  chosen  magistrates, 

And  Puritans  allowed. 
Huggle  Duggle,  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

The  Devil  laughed  aloud. 

With  that  unto  the  country 

Away  the  Devil  goeth  ; 
For  there  is  all  plain  dealing, 

For  that  the  Devil  knoweth. 
But  the  rich  man  reaps  the  gains 

For  which  the  poor  man  ploughed. 
Huggle  Duggle,  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

The  Devil  laughed  aloud. 

With  that  the  Devil  in  haste 

Took  post  away  to  hell. 
And  called  his  fellow  furies. 

And  told  them  all  on  earth  was  well : 
That  falsehood  there  did  flourish, 

I'lain  dealing  was  in  a  cloud. 
Huggle  Duggle,  Ha!  ha!  ha  I 

The  devils  laughed  aloud. 


400  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 


THE  DESPONDING  WHIG.i 

When  owls  are  stripped  of  their  disguise, 

And  wolves  of  shepherd's  clothing, 
Those  birds  and  beasts  that  please  oar  eyes 

Will  then  beget  our  loathing  ; 
When  foxes  tremble  in  their  holes 

At  dangers  that  they  see. 
And  those  we  think  so  wise  prove  foQls, — 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

If  those  designs  abortive  prove 

We've  been  so  long  in  hatching. 
And  cunning  knaves  are  forced  to  move 

From  home  for  fear  of  catching  ; 
The  rabble  soon  will  change  their  tone 

When  our  intrigues  they  see. 
And  cry  "God  save  the  Church  and  Throne!" 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

The  weaver  then  no  more  must  leave 

His  loom,  and  turn  a  preacher, 
Nor  with  his  cant  poor  fools  deceive 

To  make  himself  the  richer. 
Our  leaders  soon  would  disappear 

If  such  a  change  should  be. 
Our  scribblers  too  would  stink  for  fear, — 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

No  canvisars  would  dare  to  show 

Their  postures  and  grimaces, 
Or  prophesy  what  they  never  knew, 

By  dint  of  ugly  faces  ; 
But  shove  the  tumbler  through  the  town, 

And  quickly  banished  be, 
For  none  must  teach  without  a  gown  ; 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

If  such  unhappy  days  should  come, 

Our  virtue,  moderation. 
Would  surely  be  repaid  us  home 
,  With  double  compensation  ; 
For,  as  we  never  could  forgive, 

I  fear  we  then  should  see 
That  what  we  lent  we  must  receive, — 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

Should  honest  brethren  once  discern 
Our  knaveries,  they'd  disown  us, 

1  Modelled  partly  on  Quarles's  chant,  "  Hey  then  up  go  we,"  p.  loo. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  401 

And  bubbled  fools  more  wit  should  learn,  — 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 
Let's  guard  against  that  evil  day, 

Lest  such  a  time  should  be. 
And  tackers  should  come  into  play, — 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

Though  hitherto  we've  played  our  parts 

Like  wary  cunning  foxes, 
And  gained  the  common  people's  hearts 

By  broaching  heterodoxies, — 
But  they're  as  fickle  as  the  winds, 

With  nothing  long  agree, 
And,  when  they  change  their  wavering  minds, 

Then  low,  boys,  down  go  we. 

Let's  preach  and  pray,  but  spit  our  gall 

On  those  that  do  oppose  us. 
And  cant  of  gi'ace,  in  spite  of  all 

The  shame  the  Devil  owes  us  : 
The  just,  the  loyal,  and  the  wise. 

With  us  shall  Papists  be. 
For  if  the  High  Church  once  should  rise, 

Then,  Loiv  Church,  down  go  we. 


THE  CAMERONIAN  CAT. 

There  was  a  Cameronian  cat 

Was  hunting  for  a  prey. 
And  in  the  house  she  catched  a  mouse 

Upon  the  Sabbath-day, 

The  Whig,  being  offended 

At  sucli  an  act  profane. 
Laid  by  his  book,  the  cat  he  took. 

And  bound  her  in  a  chain. 

"  Thou  damned,  thou  cursed  creature  ! 

This  deed  so  dark  with  thee ! 
Think'st  thou  to  bring  to  hell  below 

My  holy  wife  and  me  ? 

"Assure  thyself  that  for  the  deed 
Thou  blood  for  blood  shalt  pay, 

For  killing  of  the  Lord's  own  mouae 
Upon  tiic  Sabbath-day." 

2  C 


402  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

The  presbyter  laid  by  the  book, 
And  earnestly  he  prayed 

That  the  great  sin  the  cat  had  dohe 
Might  not  on  him  be  laid. 

And  straight  to  execution 
Poor  pussy  she  was  drawn, 

And  high  hanged  up  upon  a  tree — 
The  preacher  sung  a  psalm. 

And,  when  the  work  was  ended, 
They  thought  the  cat  neai  dead  j 

She  gave  a  paw,  and  then  a  mew, 
And  stretched  out  her  head, 

"Thy  name,"  said  he,  "shall  certainly 

A  beacon  still  remain, 
A  terror  unto  evil  ones 

For  evermore.  Amen." 


TITUS  GATES  IN  THE  PILLORY. 

Behold  the  hero,  who  has  done  all  this, 

In  a  small  "  triumph"  stand,  such  as  it  is. 

A  kind  of  an  "  ovation  "  only  ? — True. 

But  those  for  bloodless  victories  are  due  ; 

His  were  not  such.     He  merits  more  than  "  eggs  " 

Let  him  in  "  triumph  "  swing,  and  ease  his  legs. 


COSMELIA. 

Cosmelia's  charms  inspire  my  lays  5 
Who,  young  in  nature's  scorn, 

Blooms  in  the  winter  of  her  days 
Like  Glastonbury  thorn. 

Cosmelia,  cruel  at  three  score 
(Like  bards  in  modern  plays), 

Four  acts  of  life  passed  guiltless  o'er, 
But  in  the  fifth  she  slays. 

If  e'er,  impatient  for  the  bliss, 
Within  her  arms  you  fall, 

The  plastered  fair  returns  the  kiss, 
Like  Thisbe,  through  a  wall. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  4^3 


PHILLIDA  FLOUTS  ME. 

Oh  what  a  pain  !s  love ! 

How  shall  I  bear  it  ? 
She  will  unconstant  prove, 

I  greatly  fear  it. 
She  so  torments  my  mind 

That  my  strength  faileth. 
And  wavers  with  the  wind, 

As  a  ship  that  saileth. 
Please  her  the  best  I  may, 
She  looks  another  way ; 
Alack  and  well-a-day ! 

Phillida  flouts  me! 

All  the  fair  yesterday 

She  did  pass  by  me  ; 
She  looked  another  way. 

And  would  not  spy  me. 
I  wooed  her  for  to  dine, 

But  could  not  get  her : 
Will  had  her  to  the  wine  ; 

He  m.ight  entreat  her. 
With  Daniel  she  did  dance  ; 
On  me  she  looked  askance  ! 
Oh  thrice  unhappy  chance ! 

Phillida  flouts  me ! 

Fair  maid !  be  not  so  coy. 

Do  not  disdain  me  ; 
I  am  m.y  mother's  joy, — 

Sweet !  entertain  me ! 
She'll  give  me,  when  she  dies, 

All  that  is  fitting  ; 
Her  poultry  and  her  bees. 

And  her  geese  sitting ; 
A  pair  of  mattress-beds. 
And  a  bagful  of  shreds  ; 
And  yet,  for  all  this  goods, 

Phillida  flouts  me  I 

She  hath  a  clout  of  mine. 

Wrought  with  good  Coventry, 
Which  she  keeps  for  a  sign 

Of  my  fidelity. 
But  i'faith,  if  she  flinch, 

She  shall  not  wear  it ; 
To  Tib,  my  t'other  wench, 

I  mean  to  bear  it. 


404  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

And  yet  it  grieves  my  heart 
So  soon  from  her  to  part ! 
Death  strikes  me  with  his  dart ! 

Phillida  flouts  me! 

Thou  shalt  eat  curds  and  cream, 

All  the  year  lasting  ; 
And  drink  the  crystal  stream, 

Pleasant  in  tasting  : 
Wigge  and  whey,  while  thou  burst, 

And  bramble-berry, 
Pie-lid  and  pastry-crust, 

Pears,  plums,  and  cherry; 
Thy  raiment  shall  be  thin, 
Made  of  a  weaven  skin  ; — 
Yet  all  not  worth  a  pin ! 

Phillida  flouts  me ! 

Fair  maidens,  have  a  care. 

And  in  time  take  me  ; 
I  can  have  those  as  fair. 

If  you  forsake  me. 
For  Doll  the  dairy-maid 

Laughed  on  me  lately. 
And  wanton  Winifred 

Favours  me  greatly. 
One  throws  milk  on  my  clothes, 
T'other  plays  with  my  nose  : 
What  wanton  sigtis  are  those  ! 

Phillida  flouts  me ! 

I  cannot  work  and  sleep 

All  at  a  season  ; 
Love  wounds  my  heart  so  deep, 

Without  all  reason. 
I  'gin  to  pine  away 

With  grief  and  sorrow, 
Like  to  a  fatted  beast 

Penned  in  a  meadow. 
I  shall  be  dead,  I  fear. 
Within  this  thousand  year. 
And  all  for  very  fear 

Pliillida  flouts  me! 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  405 


ONE  DENIAL. 

What  !  put  off  with  one  denial, 
And  not  make  a  second  trial  ? 
You  might  see  my  eyes  consenting, 
All  about  me  was  relenting  ; 
Women,  obliged  to  dwell  in  forms. 
Forgive  the  youth  that  boldly  storms. 
Lovers,  when  you  sigh  and  languish. 
When  you  tell  us  of  your  anguish. 
To  the  nymph  you'll  be  more  pleasing 
When  those  sorrows  you  are  easing ; 
We  love  to  try  how  far  men  dare. 
And  never  wish  the  foe  should  spare. 


AN  ECHO  SONG. 

*'  If  I  address  the  Echo  yonder 
What  will  its  answer  be,  I  wonder?" 

"  I  wonder  !" 

"  Oh  wondrous  Echo !     Tell  me,  bless  'ee, 
Am  I  for  marriage  or  celibacy?" 

"Silly  Bessy!" 

"  If  then  to  win  the  maid  I  try. 
Shall  I  find  her  a  property?" 

"A  proper  tie!" 

"  If  neither  being  grave  nor  funny 
Will  win  this  maid  to  rtiatrimony?" 

"Try  money!" 

"  If  I  should  try  to  gain  her  heart, 
Shall  I  eo  plain,  or  rather  smart?" 

"Smart!" 

"  She  mayn't  love  dress,  and  I  again,  then. 
May  come  too  smart,  and  she'll  complain  then." 

"  Come  plain  then." 

"  Then  if  to  marry  me  I  teaze  her. 
What  will  she  say  if  that  should  please  her? 

"I'lcasc,  sir!" 

"  When  cross  nor  good  words  can  appease  her, 
What  if  such  naughty  whims  should  seize  her?  " 

"  You'd  see,  sir  I  " 


406  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

"  When  wed,  she'll  change,  for  Love's  no  sticker, 
And  love  her  husband  less  than  liquor !" 

"Then  lick  her  I" 

"  To  leave  me  then  I  can't  compel  her, 
Though  every  woman  else  excel  her!" 

"Sell  her r' 


CHLOE  AND  CCELIA. 

Chloe  brisk  and  gay  appears, 

On  purpose  to  invite  ; 
Yet,  when  I  press  her,  she,  in  tears, 

Denies  her  sole  delight : 

Whilst  Coelia,  seeming  shy  and  coy, 
To  all  her  favours  grants, 

And  secretly  receives  that  joy 
Which  others  think  she  wants. 

I  would,  but  fear  I  never  shall, 

With  either  fair  agree  ; 
For  Coelia  will  be  kind  to  all, 

But  Chloe  won't  to  me. 


GET  UP  AND  BAR  THE  DOOR. 

It  fell  upon  a  Martinmas  time, 

And  a  gay  time  it  was  then. 
When  our  goodwife  got  puddings  to  make. 

And  she  boiled  them  in  a  pan. 

The  wind  sae  cauld  blew  south  and  north, 

And  blew  into  the  floor  ; 
Quoth  our  goodman  to  our  goodwife, 

"  Get  up  and  bar  the  door." 

"  My  hand  is  in  my  hussy's  skap, 

Goodman,  as  you  may  see  ; 
An'  it  should  na  be  barred  this  hundred  year, 

It's  no  be  baiTcd,  for  me." 

They  made  a  paction  'tvveen  them  twa, 

They  made  it  firm  and  sure, 
That  the  first  word  whae'er  should  speak 

Should  rise  and  bar  the  door. 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  407 


Then  by  there  came  twa  gentlemen, 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  night ; 
And  they  could  neither  see  house  nor  hall, 

Nor  coal  nor  c?.ndle-light. 

"  Now  whether  is  this  a  rich  man's  house  ? 

Or  whether  is  it  a  poor  ?" 
But  ne'er  a  word  would  ane  o'  them  speak, 

For  barring  of  the  door. 

And  first  they  ate  the  white  puddings, 

And  then  they  ate  the  black  ; 
Though  muckle  thought  the  goodwife  to  hersel', 

Yet  ne'er  a  word  she  spak. 

Then  said  the  one  unto  the  other  ; 

"  Here  man,  take  my  knife  ; 
Do  ye  tak  aff  the  auld  man's  bear-d, 

And  I'll  kiss  the  goodwife. 

"  But  there's  nae  water  in  the  house, 

And  what  shall  we  do  then"? 
What  ails  you  at  the  pudding  bree 

That  boils  into  the  pan  ?" 

Oh  up  then  started  our  goodman, 

An  angry  man  was  he  ; 
"  Will  ye  kiss  my  wife  before  my  face, 

And  sca'd  me  wi'  pudding  bree?" 

Then  up  then  started  our  goodwife, 

Gi'ed  three  skips  on  the  floor  ; 
"  Goodman,  you've  spoken  the  foremost  word  ! 

Get  up  and  bar  the  door  ! " 


NATURE  AND  FORTUNE. 

Nature  and  Fortune,  blithe  and  gay, 

To  pass  an  hour  or  two, 
In  frolic  mood  agreed  to  play 

At  "  What  shall  this  man  do  ?" 

*'  Come,  I'll  be  judge  then,"  Fortune  cries, 
"And  therefore  must  be  blind  ;" 

Then  whipped  a  napkin  round  her  eyes, 
And  tied  it  fast  behind. 


4oS  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

Nature  had  now  prepared  her  list 
Of  names  on  scraps  of  leather  ; 

Which  rolled,  she  gave  them  tich  a  twisS, 
And  hustled  them  together. 

Tlius  mixed,  whichever  came  to  K  ind 

She  very  surely  drew  ; 
Then  bade  her  sister  give  command 

For  what  that  man  should  do. 

'T would  almost  burst  one's  sides  to  he.'r 
What  strange  commands  she  gave  ; 

That  Gibber  should  the  lam-el  wear, 
And  C e  an  army  have. 

At  length,  when  Stanhope's  name  was  come^ 
Dame  Nature  smiled,  and  cried  ; 

"  Now  tell  me,  sister,  this  man's  doom, 
And  what  shall  him  betide." 

"That  man,"  said  Fortune,  "shall  be  one 
Blest  both  by  you  and  me  :" — 

"Nay,  then,"  quoth  Nature,  "let's  have  done; 
Sister,  I'm  sure  you  see." 


AT  CHURCH. 

Last  Sunday  at  St.  James's  prayers. 

The  prince  and  prinpess  by, 
I,  dressed  in  all  my  whale-bone  airs, 

Sat  in  a.  closet  nigh. 
I  bowed  my  knees,  I  held  my  book, 

Read  all  the  answers  o'er; 
But  was  perverted  by  a  look 

Which  pierced  me  from  the  dooi'. 
High  thoughts  of  Heaven  I  came  to  use 

With  the  devoutest  care  ; 
Which  gay  young  Strephon  made  me  lose. 

And  all  the  raptures  there. 
He  stood  to  hand  me  to  my  chair. 

And  bowed  with  courtly  grace  ; 
But  whispered  love  into  my  ear. 

Too  warm  for  that  grave  place. 
"Love,  love,"  said  he,  "by  all  adored. 

My  tender  heart  has  won." 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  409 


But  I  grew  peevish  at  the  word, 
And  bade  he  would  be  gone. 

He  went  quite  out  of  sight,  while 
A  kinder  answer  meant ; 

Nor  did  I  for  my  sins  that  day 
By  half  so  much  repent. 


KISSING. 

As  I  went  to  the  wake  that  is  held  on  the  green, 

I  met  with  young  Phoabe,  as  blithe  as  a  queen  ; 

A  form  so  divine  might  an  anchorite  move. 

And  I  found  (though  a  clown)  I  was  smitten  with  love  : 

So  I  asked  for  a  kiss,  but  she,  blushing,  replied,^ 

♦'Indeed,  gentle  shepherd,  you  must  be  denied." 

"Lovely  Phoebe,"  says  I,  "don't  affect  to  be  shy, 

I  vow  I  will  kiss  you— here's  nobody  by." 

"No  matter  for  that,"  she  replied,  "  'tis  the  same  ; 

For  know,  silly  shepherd,  I  value  my  fame  ; 

So  pray  let  me  go,  I  shall  surely  be  missed  ; 

Besides,  I'm  resolved  that  I  will  not  be  kissed. 

"Lord  bless  me  !"  I  cried,  "  I'm  surprised  you  refuse  ; 
A  few  harmless  kisses  but  serve  to  amuse ; 
The  month  it  is  May,  and  the  season  for  love, 
So  come,  my  dear  girl,  to  the  wake  let  us  rove." 
"No,  Damon,"  she  cried,   "  I  must  first  be  your  wife  ; 
You  then  shall  be  welcome  to  kiss  me  for  life." 

"Well,  come  then,"  I  cried,  "to  the  church  let  us  go. 
But  after,  dear  Phccbe  must  never  say  No." 
"Do  you  prove  but  true,"  she  replied,  "you  shall  find 
I'll  ever  be  constant,  good-humoured,  and  kind." 
So  I  kiss  when  I  please,  for  she  ne'er  says  she  won't ; 
And  I  kiss  her  so  much  that  I  wonder  she  don't. 


THERE  WAS  AN  OLD  WOMAN. 

There  was  an  old  woman,  as  I've  heard  tell, 
She  went  to  market  her  eggs  for  to  sell ; 
She  went  to  market  all  on  a  market-day ; 
And  she  fell  asleep  on  the  king's  highway. 

There  came  by  a  pedlar  whose  name  was  Stout, 

He  cut  her  petticoats  all  round  about  ; 

He  cut  her  petticoats  up  to  the  knees. 

Which  made  the  old  woman  to  shiver  and  freeze. 


4IO  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

When  this  little  woman  first  did  wake, 
She  began  to  shiver,  and  she  began  to  shake  : 
She  began  to  wonder,  and  she  began  to  cry, 
"  Lauk-a-mercy  on  me,  this  is  none  of  I  ! 

"  But  if  it  be  T,  as  I  do  hope  it  be, 

I've  a  little  dog  at  home,  and  he'll  know  me  ; 

If  it  be  I,  he'll  wag  his  little  tail. 

And  if  it  be  not  I,  he'll  loudly  bark  and  wail ! ' 

Home  went  the  little  woman  all  in  the  dark  ; 
Up  got  the  little  dog,  and  he  began  to  bark ; 
He  began  to  bark,  so  she  began  to  cry, 
"  Lauk-a-mercy  on  me,  this  is  none  of  I  ! " 


THE  MERRY  MAN. 

I  AM  a  young  fellow 

Who  loves  to  be  mellow. 
To  drink  and  be  merry  is  all  my  delight ; 

I  often  get  frisky 

By  tippling  good  whisky 
With  jovial  companions  from  morning  to  night. 

I  never  took  pleasure 

In  hoarding  up  treasure  ; 
The  sight  of  a  miser  I  cannot  endure. 

Who  always  is  griping. 

And  sharping,  and  biting. 
And  laying  out  schemes  for  to  plunder  the  poor. 
Ri  fal-da-riddle  lah,  &c. 

Of  the  beggarly  miser 

I  am  a  despiser  ; 
The  fruit  of  his  labour  he  never  enjoys  j 

His  heirs  for  his  money, 

Impatient  of  honey. 
Are  waiting,  and  hate  him,  while  with  it  he  toys. 

His  frame  is  complaining. 

For  want  of  sustaining  ; 
His  limbs  are  decrepit  from  hunger  and  cold  ; 

Instead  of  good  liquor. 

To  make  his  pulse  quicker. 
He's  gloating  and  doating  on  that  idol  called  gold, 

As  for  me,  while  I'm  able. 
At  the  head  of  a  table, 
Set  me  down  of  good  whisky  a  full  water-stand, 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  41 J 

Where  each  clever  toper 

May  drink  like  the  pope,  or 
May  toast  to  his  friends  with  a  bumper  in  hand. 

By  the  side  of  that  jorum, 

Like  a  Justice  of  Quorum, 
I'll  preside  full  of  state  in  my  holiday  clothes  ; 

In  winter  or  summer, 

With  a  rollicking  rummer, 
A.  pipe  for  to  smoke,  and  a  jug  at  my  nose. 


"  Come,  drawer,  this  spirit 

Of  yours  has  some  merit. 
Sweet  pipj^^ome  squeeze  up  your  leather  and  play, 

A^f  hand  him  the  pitcher, 

It  makes  music  richer," — 
Thus  we'll  drink  and  carouse  to  the  dawning  of  day. 

I  hold  them  but  asses 

Who  wait  to  fill  glasses, — 
Such  muddling  and  fuddling's  unworthy  of  man  ; 

It  only  is  wasting 

The  time  that  is  hasting, — 
Commend  me  to  those  that  will  fugle  the  can. 

When  stopped  in  my  toddy 

By  death  seizing  my  body, 
No  crocodile  tears  shall  be  shed  at  my  wake  ; 

While  there  I  am  lying, 

No  counterfeit  crying. 
No  moans,  I  desire,  shall  be  made  for  my  sake 

I've  no  taste  for  squalling. 

Or  old  women's  bawling, 
Who  string  nonsense  together  and  call  it  a  keen. 

Who  only  are  selling 

Their  yelping  and  yelling 
For  some  one  perhaps  that  they  never  have  seen. 

But  of  whisky  a  cruiskeen 

To  fill  up  each  loose  skin. 
Let  all  have  to  toast  to  my  journey  up-hfU ; 

And  three  jolly  pipers 

To  tune  up  for  the  swipers. 
While  each  boy  honestly  swallows  his  fill. 

Then  a  blackthorn  cudgel 

For  each,  should  they  grudge  ill 
To  anoint  one  another,  and  none  to  control  : 

Nor  let  them  be  down-hearted 

For  him  that's  departed. 
But  end  their  disputes  in  a  full-flowing  bowl. 

The  next  morning  early, 

When  daylight  'tis  fairly, 


412  UNKNOWN  WRITERS. 

My  trunk  shall  be  nailed  quite  close  to  my  back  j 

Four  stout  lads  so  civil 

Will  bear  it  up  level, 
Whilst  I  ride  on  their  shoulders  instead  of  a  sack. 

Now  let  them  all  sing, 

And  the  valleys  will  ring, 
Raising  up  a  fine  chorus,  both  gallant  and  brave  ; 

Then  lay  me  down  flat. 

Like  a  sieve-woman's  hat, 
And  away  goes  the  merry  man  into  his  grave. 
Ri  fal-da-riddle  lah,  &c. 


THE  COURT  OF^LDERMEN  AT  FISHMONGERS'  HALL. 

"  Is  that  dace  or  perch  ?  " 

Said  Alderman  Birch  ; 
"  I  take  it  for  herring," 

Said  Alderman  Perring. 
"This  jack's  very  good," 

Said  Alderman  Wood  ; 
'  But  its  bones  might  a  man  slay," 

Said  Alderman  Ansley. 
-"I'llbutter  what  I  get," 

Said  Alderman  Heygate. 
Give  me  some  stewed  carp," 

Said  Alderman  Thorp. 
"The  I'oe's  dry  as  pith," 

Said  Alderman  Smith. 
"Don't  cut  so  far  down," 

Said  Alderman  Brown : 
But  nearer  the  fin," 

Said  Alderman  Glyn. 
"I've  finished,  i'  faith,  man," 

Said  Alderman  Waithman  : 
"And  I  too,  i'  fatkins," 

Said  Alderman  Atkins. 
"They've  crimped  this  cod  drolly," 

Said  Alderman  Scholey; 
"'Tis  bruised  at  the  ridges," 

Said  Alderman  Brydges. 
"  Was  it  caught  in  a  drag?     Nay," 

Said  Alderman  Magnay. 
"'Twas  brought  by  two  men," 

Said  Alderman  Ven- 
ables  :  "  Yes,  in  a  box," 

Said  Alderman  Cox. 
"They  care  not  Yiow fur  'tis," 

Said  Alderman  Curtis — 


UNKNOWN  WRITERS.  413 

"  From  air  kept,  and  from  sun," 

Said  Alderman  Thompson  ; 
"  Packed  neatly  in  straw," 

Said  Alderman  Shaw : 
"  In  ice  got  from  Gunter," 

Said  Alderman  Himter. 
"This  ketchup  is  sour," 

Said  Alderman  Flower : 
"Then  steep  it  in  claret," 

Said  Alderman  Garret. 


AMERICAN    WRITERS 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

[Born  in  1767,  died  in  1848.  President  of  the  United  States  from  1825  to 
5829.  He  wrote  much  in  both  verse  and  prose  :  his  principal  poetical  composi- 
tion, 'pubUshed  in  1832,  is  named  Dermoi  MacMorrogh,  or  the  Conquest  of 
Ireland,  a7i  Historical  Tale  of  the  Twelfth  Century,  in  Fortr  Cantos}. 

THE  PLAGUE  IN  THE  FOREST 

-    Time  was  when  round  the  lion's  den 

A  peopled  city  raised  its  head  ; 
'Twas  not  inhabited  by  men, 

But  by  four-footed  beasts  instead. 
The  lynx,  the  leopard,  and  tlie  bear, 
The  tiger  and  the  wolf,  were  there  ; 

The  hoof-defended  steed ; 
The  bull,  prepared  with  horns  to  gore  ; 
The  cat  with  claws,  the  tusky  boar, 

And  all  the  canine  breed. 

In  social  compact  thus  combined, 

Together  dwelt  the  beasts  of  prey  ; 
Their  murderous  weapons  all  resigned, 

And  vowed  each  other  not  to  slay. 
Among  them  Reynard  thrust  his  phiz  ; 
Not  hoof  nor  horn  nor  tusk  was  his, 

For  warfare  all  unfit. 
He  whispered  to  the  royal  dunce, 
And  gained  a  settlement  at  once  ; 

His  weapon  was — his  wit. 

One  summer,  by  some  fatal  spell, 
(Phoebus  was  peevish  for  some  scoff) 

The  plague  upon  that  city  fell, 

And  swept  the  beasts  by  thousands  off. 

The  lion,  as  became  his  part, 


ADAMS.  415 


Loved  his  own  people  from  his  heart ; 

And,  taking  counsel  sage, 
His  peerage  summoned  to  advise, 
And  offer  up  a  sacrifice 

To  soothe  Apollo's  rage. 

Quoth  Lion,  "  We  are  sinners  all ; 

And  even,  it  must  be  confessed, 
If  among  sheep  I  chance  to  fall, 

I — I  am  guilty  as  the  rest. 
To  me  the  sight  of  lamb  is  cursed  ; 
It  kindles  in  my  throat  a  thirst, — 

I  struggle  to  refrain, — 
Poor  innocent  !  his  blood  so  sweet  ? 
His  flesh  so  delicate  to  eat ! 

I  find  resistance  vain. 

"  Now  to  be  candid,  I  must  own 

The  sheep  are  weak  and  I  am  strong. 
But,  when  we  find  ourselves  alone, 

The  sheep  have  never  done  me  wrong. 
And,  since  I  purpose  to  reveal 
All  my  offences,  nor  conceal 

One  trespass  from  your  vie\^', 
My  appetite  is  made  so  keen  ' 

That  with  the  sheep  the  time  has  been 

I  took  the  shepherd  too. 

"  Then  let  us  all  our  sins  confess. 

And  whosesoe'er  the  blackest  guilt, 
To  ease  my  people's  deep  distress, 

Let  his  atoning  blood  be  spilt. 
My  own  confession  now  you  hear. 
Should  none  of  deeper  dye  appear, 

Your  sentence  freely  give  ; 
And,  if  on  me  should  fall  the  lot, 
Make  me  the  victim  on  the  spot, 

And  let  my  people  live." 

The  council  with  applauses  rung. 

To  hear  the  Codrus  of  tlie  wood  ;' 
Though  still  some  doubt  suspended  hungl 

If  he  would  make  his  promise  good. 
Quoth  Reynard,  "  .Since  the  world  was  made, 
Was  ever  love  like  this  disi^laycd? 

Let  us  like  subjects  true 
Swear,  as  before  your  feet  we  fall, 
Sooner  than  you  should  die  for  all, 

Wc  all  will  die  for  you. 


4i6  ADAMS. 


"  But-  please  your  majesty,  I  deem, 

Submissive  to  your  royal  grace, 
You  hold  in  far  too  high  esteem 

That  paltry,  poltroon,  sheepish  race  ; 
For  oft,  reflecting  in  the  shade, 
I  ask  myself  why  sheep  were  made 

By  all-creating  power  : 
And,  howsoe'er  I  tax  my  mind, 
This  the  sole  reason  I  can  find — 

For  lions  to  devour. 

"  And  as  for  eating  now  and  then 

As  well  the  shepherd  as  the  sheep, — 
How  can  that  braggart  breed  of  men 

Expect  with  you  the  peace  to  keep  ? 
'Tis  time  their  blustering  boast  to  stem, 
That  all  the  world  was  made  for  them — 

And  prove  creation's  plan  ; 
Teach  them  by  evidence  profuse 
That  man  was  made  for  lions'  use. 

Not  lions  made  for  man." 

■  And  now  the  noble  peers  begin, 

And,  cheered  with  such  examples  bright, 
Disclosing  each  his  secret  sin, 

Some  midnight  murder  brought  to  light. 
Reynard  was  counsel  for  them  all ; 
No  crime  the  assembly  could  appal, 

But  /le  could  botch  with  paint : 
Hark,  as  his  honeyed  accents  roll, 
Each  tiger  is  a  gentle  soul. 

Each  bloodhound  is  a  saint. 

When  each  had  told  his  tale  in  turn, 

;  The  long-eared  beast  of  burden  came, 
And  meekly  said,  "  My  bowels  yearn 

To  make  confession  of  my  shame  ; 
But  I  remember  on  a  time 
I  passed,  not  thinking  of  a  crime, 

A  haystack  on  my  way  : 
His  lure  some  tempting  devil  spread, 
I  stretched  across  the  fence  my  head, 

And  cropped  a  lock  of  hay." 

"  Oh  monster  !  villain  !  "  Reynard  cried— 
"  No  longer  seek  the  victim,  sire  ; 

Nor  why  your  subjects  thus  have  died 
To  expiate  Apollo's  ire." 


HALLECK.  417 

The  council  with  one  voice  decreed  ; 
All  joined  to  execrate  the  deed, — 

"  What,  steal  another's  grass  ! " 
The  blackest  crime  tJiew  lives  could  show 
Was  washed  as  white  as  virgin  snow  ; 

The  victim  was — the  Ass. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 

[Born  in  179s,  died  in  1868.  His  maternal  descent  was  from  John  Eliot, 
"the  Apostle  of  the  Indians."  He  engaged  in  business,  acting  for  several 
years  as  agent  to  the  great  capitalist  Astor.J 

RED  JACKET,   A  CHIEF  OF  THE   INDIAN   TRIBES,  THE 
TUSCARORAS. 

ON  LOOKING  AT  HIS  PORTRAIT  BY  WEIR. 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 

First  in  her  files,  her  Pioneer  of  mind — 
A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 

His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind  ;  ^ 

And  throned  her  in  the  sanate-hall  of  nations. 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations. 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought. 

And,  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 

As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con.  : 
He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 

The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known  ; 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh  ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph. 

And  furthermore — in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 

We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine  ; 
And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 

Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora  ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic. 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings  ; 

Well  might  lie  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings  ! 

1  Red  Jacket  appeared  orisin.nlly  in  1828,  soon  after  the  publication  of  J. 
Fcnimorc  Cooper's  Not  tons  of  the  Aincricaiis. 

2  D 


4i8  HALLECK. 


For  thou  wast  monarcli  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely  : — if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  Red  Jacket  grace  an  English  rhyme. 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land,  and  on  her  herald  roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Cceur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  Avore,  at  liis  court  at  Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine  ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch  on  field  and  flood. 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
OrTorest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's  ? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong, 
As  earth's  first  kings  — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 

Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty?— Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed  ; 

But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years. 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 

Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence  ? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery— they  are  short. 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding. 

The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 

The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one  : 

Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 


HALLECK. 


419 


Who  will  believe  ?     (Not  I— for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream  ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem) 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  soothe  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing. 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair  ? 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas-tree ; 

And,  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee  ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear. 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow— all  save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars  ; 

Hatred— of  missionaries  and  cold  water  ; 
Pride— in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars  ; 

Hope— that  thy  wrongs  may  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 
Remembered  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone ; 

Sorrow— that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race. 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours  ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high. 
And  feudal  banners  "  flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 


420  HALLECK. 

( 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill. 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  loVT, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile  : 

Does  not  the  succouring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 
One  solitary  turret  grey 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day. 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch  ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march. 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum  ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young. 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  waiTior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloOTU  : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath, 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  Vine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "  tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here  ; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier,' 
*    The  welcome  and  farewell. 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 


HALLE  CK.  421 

I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high  heroic  name, 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons  ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son. 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dashed 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup  ; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flashed, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone  ; 
And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town, 
And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way  ; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line  ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land. 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand. 
From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable. 
Of  kniglits,  but  not  of  the  round  table. 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy : 
'Tis  what  "  our  President,"  Monroe, 

Has  called  '  *  the  era  of  good  feeling  : " 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing  : 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings  ; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band. 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come  :  to-day  tlio  turbaned  Turk 


422 


BRAINARD. 


(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone. 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek. 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die  ; 
And  not  a  sabre- blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state. 
The  present  representatives  ' 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate " 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn  ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye. 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal. 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


JOHN  GARDNER  CALKINS  BRAINARD. 

[Born  in  1796,  died  in'iSaS.  In  his  brief  career  he  was  first  called  to  the 
bar ;  then  undertook  the  editorship  of  a  weekly  gazette  ;  and  consumption 
closed  a  somewhat  desultory  and  melancholy  life]. 

SONNET  TO  THE   SEA-SERPENT. 
"  Hugest  that  swims  the  ocean  stream. " 

Welter  upon  the  waters,  mighty  one — 

And  stretch  thee  in  the  ocean's  trough  of  brine  ; 
Turn  thy  wet  scales  up  to  the  wind  and  sun, 

And  toss  the  billow  from  thy  flashing  fin  ; 

Heave  thy  deep  breathings  to  the  ocean's  din. 
And  bound  upon  its  ridges  in  thy  pride  : 

Or  dive  down  to  its  lowest  depths,  and  in 
The  caverns  where  its  unknown  monsters  hide 
Measure  thy  length  beneath  the  gulf-stream's  tide— 

Or  rest  thee  on  that  navel  of  the  sea 
Where,  floating  on  the  Maelstrom,  abide 

The  krakens  sheltering  under  Norway's  lee  ; 
But  go  not  to  Nahant,  lest  men  should  swear 
You  are  a  great  deal  bigger  than  you  are. 


WHITTIER.  423 


GEORGE  P.  iMORRIS. 

[Born  in  iSoi,  died  towards  1S65.I  A  general  in  the  army,  dramatist,  and 
miscellaneous  writer  ;  especially  popular  for  his  songs,  one  of  which  is  the  uni- 
versally known  "  Woodman,  spare  that  tree  "J. 

THE  RETORT. 

Old  Nick,  who  taught  the  village  school, 
Wedded  a  maid  of  homespun  habit ; 

He  was  stubborn  as  a  mule, 
She  was  playful  as  a  rabbit. 

Poor  Jane  had  scarce  become  a  wife, 
Before  her  husband  sought  to  make  hei" 

The  pink  of  country  polished  life, 
And  prim  and  formal  as  a  Quaker. 

One  day  the  tutor  went'abroad, 

And  simple  Jenny  sadly  missed  him  ; 

When  he  returned,  behind  her  lord 
She  slyly  stole,  and  fondly  kissed  him. 

The  husband's  anger  rose — and  red 

And  white  his  face  alternate  grew. 
"  Less  freedom,  ma'am  !  " — Jane  sighed  and  said, 

" Oh  dear  !  I  didn't  know  'twas  you!" 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

[Born  in  1808  at  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  where  his  ancestors,  of  the  Quaker 
denomination,  had  long  been  settled.  Mr.  Whitlier  was  early  engaged  in  farm- 
ing operations  ;  and  afterwards  as  a  political,  and  more  especially  a  protectionist, 
journalist.  In  1836  he  became  one  of  the  secretaries  of  the  Anti-Slavery  So- 
ciety :  and  some  of  his  most  vigorous  and  rousuig  poems  are  devoted  to  that 
noble  cause.  He  has  also  written  various  prose  works  ;  one  of  the  chief  among 
which  is  SupertuiiuraHsm  in  New  England,  published  in  1847.  The  bulk  of 
Mr.  Whittier's  poetical  writings  is  considerable.  His  name  stands  high  in  the 
United  States,  and  ought  in  England  to  be  better  known  than  as  yet  it  is.  An 
upright  manly  energy,  and  the  tenderness  of  a  strong  yet  delicate  nature,  are 
constantly  conspicuous  in  his  writings.  These  fine  qualities  are  mostly  asso- 
ciated with  a  genuine  poetic  grace,  and  in  many  instances  with  art  truly  solid 
and  finel. 

THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 

The  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room, 

And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 
And  beats  the  maid  with  lier  unused  broom, 

And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail  ; 
But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the  corn. 
And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

1  In  this  case  and  another  (see  Park  Benjamin),  where  I  say  "towards  1865" 
as  the  date  of  death,  I  have  reason  to  infer  that  the  authors  vvere  alive  in  1S63, 
but  have  died  since  then,  though  the  precise  year  of  death  is  uncertain  to  me : 
1265  is  named  as  an  approximation. 


424  WHITTIER 


The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 

And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barnloft  cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear. 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered  limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sinload  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  grey 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book. 

Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  Avhose  names 

Are  chronicled  well  by  good  king  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 

No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 

Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell  ; 
And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A  stout  old  mail  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark  red  nose. 

And  two  grey  eyes  enveloped  in  fat. 

Looking  througli  glasses  with  iron  bows. 

Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can 

Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man  ! 

He  comes  vi^ith  a  careless  "How  d'ye  do?" 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow-chair  ; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care  ; 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat, 

And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book. 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and  look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  : 
And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 

The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 
The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 


WHITTIER.  425 


The  marriage  list,  and  \\\QJat  d'esprit, 
All  reach  my  ear  in  the  selfsame  tone, — 
I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on  ! 

Oh  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight  sea, 

Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance,  which  seems 

To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's  dreams, — 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone. 

And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  selfsame  book, — 

Some  tale  periiaps  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe, 

Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon-bar, 
Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 

Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar  ; 
And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 
And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And,  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's  ; 

And,  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear. 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear  !— 

Oh  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day. 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlour  door  ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  selfsame  lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night  before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet. 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet ! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out  ; 

I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain  ! 

I've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size 

Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to  meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 

Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 


426  HOLMES. 


I've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and  Tate, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 
I've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 

And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlour  wall, 
Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day. 

"  Conjitro  it;  sceleratissime, 

Abire  ad  iiniiii  loatvi !  " — Still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me, — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill ; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum  ! 

Ah  ! — commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 

With  her  sevenfold  plagues, — to  the  wandering  Jew,- 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 

The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew  ; 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can. 
That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man  ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

[Born  in  iSog.  A  Physician,  and  Professor  of  Anatomy  in  Harvard  Univer- 
sity. Well  known  as  author  of  T/ie  A  jitocrat  of  the  Breakfast-table  and  other 
prose  writings,  as  well  as  poems — humorous,  critical,  or  occasional,  for  the 
most  part]. 

THE  TREADMILL  SONG. 

The  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below. 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly  ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 

Like  planets  in  the  sky? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs !  : 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend. 

And  shake  your  spider  legs  ; 
What  though  you're  awkward  at  the  trade, 

There's  time  enough  to  learn, — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They've  built  us  up  a  noble  wall. 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out  ; 
We've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

But  just  to  walk  about ; 


HOLMES.  427 

So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men. 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,— 
It's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes. 

He  sha'nt  be  lazy  here, — 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear, — 
He's  lost  them  both, — don't  pull  his  hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch. 
But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye. 

That  isn't  in  the  patch. 

Hark!  fellows,  there's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It's  pretty  sport,  — suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own ! 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 

One's  money  from  his  purse. 
And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse  ; 
But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 

To  make  a  body  curse. 

You're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains  ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 
And  takes  your  horse's  reins. 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 
It's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out. 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you're  going  out  to  dine, — 

Some  lilthy  creature  begs 
You'll  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 


428  HOLMES. 


That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 
For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 


^to" 


He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread, — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon  ; 
You  hear  a  sound  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come  ; 
There's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "  home,  sweet  home,"  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place  ; 
Your  "auld  acquaintance"  all